


By Appointment

by LiveInMyHead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveInMyHead/pseuds/LiveInMyHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is struck with an unusual curse that puts his life in danger. He and Sam must find a way to break the curse before it ends Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At first, Sam wasn't sure what woke him. He just blinked blankly into the darkness above him in confusion. It hadn't been a nightmare for a change and he didn't have that feeling like he'd just heard something. He just felt like something was off. It didn't take too long to figure out what it was. He was cold, freezing actually, even under the covers. The motel wasn't the highest quality, as per usual, so the blankets were just a hair better than see through, but he had been warm enough before. If he could see much of anything at all, he was sure he could see his breath. Did Dean turn on the air conditioning instead of the heat? It had to be below freezing outside.

He sat up, peering into the darkness, trying to push the fog of sleep away. A cool breeze ran across his face, his head turning automatically to the source. When he saw what it was, the chill on his skin sank deeper, now resting inside his bones. He was suddenly wide awake.

The door to the motel was wide open.

His eyes' next stop was on the bed next to him, only slightly illuminated the by the pale beams of moonlight, seeking out the vague person shaped lump that would be his brother. It wasn't there. In full on alert mode, Sam leaned to the side of the bed, pulling his gun out of his duffel, taking the safety off. It was certainly possible Dean had just stepped out for a moment to get something from the car, or from the vending machine. What wasn't as possible was that Dean would leave the door open.

Sam stood quickly, reaching over to snap on the lamp in between the two beds, noting that Dean's cell was still resting next to his, charging. He examined the room carefully, looking for any signs that his brother may not have left under his own steam. The covers on Dean's bed had been swung to the side just like Dean had simply gotten out of the bed like he would any other time. Sam started edging towards the door, still looking around the room, keeping to the side so he wouldn't be seen if someone was right outside. His gaze caught on two things that changed alarm to full on panic; Dean's boots still resting haphazardly at the end of his bed and his Colt 1911 gleaming out at him just inside his brother’s duffel bag. There was no way Dean would leave the room by choice without them.

Abandoning caution, Sam rushed to the door, greeted by the hulking shape of the Impala just to the right of the door, the light from inside the room turning the lustrous black paint on her trunk to liquid fire. There were lights outside most of the rooms by the doors, but the one next to theirs was out. Sam couldn't remember if it had been off when they arrived or not. Jogging over to the side of the car, wincing slightly as the gravel of the driveway stabbed into his bare feet, he bent down and peered into the windows, both relieved and concerned that he didn't find Dean inside.

Sam stood, worried eyes casting over the nearly empty parking lot, his hand twisting into his hair. Where the hell was his brother?

"Dean?" he called out. Only silence answered him back.

There was a soda vending machine down by the office, but the area was well lit and Sam could see clearly from the car that his brother was not by it. Drawing in a trembling breath that had more to do with fear and uneasiness than the cold, Sam started towards it, wanting to see if maybe Dean had gone into the office or maybe the laundry room. Very unlikely since it was Sam's turn to do laundry, but possible if his older brother couldn't sleep. He had a thought to go put on shoes and a jacket, but he didn't want to take the chance that those two or three minutes might have been the difference between finding his brother and losing him.

It had been an ordinary night. They had checked into the motel on their way out to another hunt, a haunting in a children's hospital. Dean had been his usual self, drinking beer, eating horrible food, watching even more horrible TV and teasing Sam about whatever took his fancy. Nothing that might explain why he might just get up and walk out of their room without his gun or leaving a note for Sam, so he had to have been taken. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was all he was coming up with.

How someone had managed to sneak up on both of them and then get Dean out of the room without Sam hearing it was really beyond the realm of possibility, but he wasn't sure what else could have happened. Dean had been injured, the witch coven they had cleared out a few days ago hadn't gone quietly, but not so injured that he wouldn't have fought back, made enough noise that Sam would wake up and help. It just didn't make sense.

The laundry room was empty, no signs that Dean had recently been anywhere near it. The office was dark and locked. Sam swallowed down a sob of frustration that was starting to crawl its way up his throat, knowing he had to keep his head clear no matter how hard it was. He had a feeling something was wrong, very wrong, and he knew to trust his instincts.

His gaze was caught by the tall sign of the motel by the road, still lit and casting an eerie reddish glow over the empty pavement. Actually, not so empty after all.

He had found his brother. Dean was just standing there in the road.

The first thing Sam felt was relief that he hadn't been taken after all, but that was quickly followed by a resurgence of apprehension. What was Dean doing just standing in the middle of the road at 2 am in the morning?

"Dean!" he shouted, running full out towards his brother, tucking his gun into the waistband of his flannel sleep pants, no longer noticing the cold or the rocks tearing at his feet. Dean gave no indication that he heard Sam at all. Was Dean sleepwalking all of sudden? What was going on?

Dean was still wearing the gray t shirt he had put on before burying himself under blankets just a couple of hours ago and his black boxer briefs. As Sam got closer to him, he could see the trembling of his limbs, the goosebumps standing out on his exposed, almost strangely translucent flesh. Drawing up next to him now, Sam moved in front of his brother, hands coming up to rest on his biceps, no warmth at all coming from his brother's skin.

"Dean?" he asked quietly, staring down at his brother with concern.

Dean was just looking blankly down the road, his blue tinged lips slightly parted. It's like he wasn't there, like he'd left his body behind. Sam ducked down to try and catch that dead gaze with his, but the vacant green eyes of his brother didn't focus in. Sam shook him gently, desperately trying to bring his brother out of whatever hole he'd fallen into. He'd never seen Dean like this and it was terrifying.

Finally, Dean's eyes shifted slightly, just enough to meet Sam's. There was still nothing of Dean inside them, but Sam would take what he could get at the moment.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked him, trying to keep his tone steady and soft. If Dean was sleepwalking, then he'd heard it could be traumatic to wake them up too abruptly.

"Waiting," Dean replied, his voice just as lifeless as his gaze.

"Waiting for what, Dean?" Sam asked, frantically going through the possibilities of what might cause this. It had to be those damn witches. He wasn't aware of any spells or curses getting thrown their way and it wouldn't normally take this long for it to hit, but what else could it be?

Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder to the road stretched out behind him.

"The truck," he said simply.

That was enough to remind Sam of where they were standing and also enough for him to be done with the conversation while standing outside, exposed and with a brother who wasn't himself at the moment. He had to get Dean inside, get him warm and find out what the hell was happening, in that order.

"Okay, well let's wait inside for it, okay?" Sam said, moving to Dean's side and throwing an arm around his brother's quaking shoulders, starting to lead him off the road toward their room. Sam thought he had been cold before, but standing this close to the icicle that was his brother, Sam had to wonder how long Dean had been standing out there. How long did it take for the room to get cold enough to wake Sam? Obviously too long.

Dean's cold and dead limbs came to life then, darting away from Sam before he could restrain him and returning back to the place he'd been standing before.

"I have to wait. 2:08am. I have to wait," Dean said without an ounce of inflection.

Sam glanced down at his watch. 2:06. He glanced down the long back road. He remembered that it had been straight, very few curves. If there was supposed to be a truck here at 2:08, he should be able to see its headlights. There was nothing.

Sam sighed. He was going to try one more time to do this peacefully, then he was going to start exerting some worried brother pressure in the form of strong arms and legs.

"Dean, please. At least come off the road," Sam pleaded, once again standing in front of his brother. Dean just stared through Sam's throat, which was blocking the view to the road behind him.

Lunging forward, Sam tucked his shoulder into Dean's gut. When his brother's body bent over in reflex, he lifted, Dean's feet leaving the ground, his arms dangling down Sam's back. Tucking his arm around the back of Dean's legs, he pivoted and moved off them off the road, his legs and back burning with the strain of carrying his brother's weight. Dean struggled furiously against him, but the cold had weakened him, the blows to his kidney that would have dropped him any other day, glancing off with only a twinge of discomfort. It was worth it, he wasn't going to leave his brother standing in the road where a truck was supposedly about to come through.

Once they were a fair distance away, Sam leaned back over, letting Dean's feet hit the ground. Immediately, Dean turned back to the road, starting to walk towards it in purposeful steps. Sam growled in frustration and shot forward, grabbing his brother around the waist from behind, determined this time to keep him under his control until got them into the room. Dean struggled and kicked, pushing against the restraining arm, digging his heels in to try and push forward.

"Dean, stop! What the hell, man?" Sam shouted, wrenching his head out of the way as Dean tried to head butt him.

All activity stopped as they were washed in headlights from a semi that was just suddenly there, a ghostly figure standing before it in the same place Dean had been, basically evaporating as the grill of the truck slammed into it. Then it was gone like it had never been there. Dean stopped fighting then, Sam falling abruptly on his ass as the counterweight to his tugging stopped pulling in the opposite direction, Dean going with him, thankfully landing with more of his weight on his legs than his vulnerable groin.

Sam just stared up in shock at where the horrible accident had been just a moment before. There was nothing there. Had it been some kind of death echo? What would have happened if Dean had still been standing there? Slowly, he glanced down at his watch. It was 2:08 am.

Dean shifted forward, rolling off of Sam to sit on the ground, knees pulled up to his chin. He looked sad and lost. "I missed it," he whispered in disappointment.


	2. Chapter 2

6 Days Ago

"Friggin' witches," Dean grated out in disgust, grimacing as he pulled his now slimy and gore covered hand out of what was probably once a small animal. He really should have learned by now not to touch anything he couldn't see in a witch's lair, but he had lost his flashlight and his brother when they had managed to step into some funhouse type trap door that sent Dean tumbling down into the pit of despair and left Sam up above. Fumbling around the darkness with only his trusty Zippo to barely light the way was not exactly part of the plan they had going in, but Dean was nothing if not adaptable, using his free hand to feel his way along the dank walls which clearly was a bad idea. With a sigh, he wiped his hand on moss covered wall trying to control his urge to barf all over said animal.

He and Sam had been checking into mysterious deaths and missing persons reports in Pennsylvania. Bobby had caught wind of it and didn't like the sound of it, so sent them out. Further research had revealed that there had been similar deaths and disappearances all centered within a four hundred mile radius going back a hundred years. Some of the bodies had been found, the causes of death varying drastically; hit by a car, stabbing, shot, falling from a great height, drowning, etc. The list was pretty much a how to manual on how to die.

The only thing that connected them was the presence of an herb in their systems; Licorice Root. Nothing untoward, lots of people ate licorice. Dean had practically lived off the stuff in high school, but it was a powerful herb in witchcraft used to control people. He might almost believe it, he could remember more than one instance where sharing a strand of licorice with a girl led to so much more, but he chalked that up to the fact that he was Dean Fucking Winchester more than anything else. How Bobby managed to connect the scattered dots on this one was beyond him, but he was the master, so Dean would just quietly bow down to his skills and do his job.

The only sticky thing was that Dean hated witches. More than just about anything else because they wigged him out, so he wasn't exactly looking forward to this one. They hadn't dealt with many of them, but it was always a grab bag of "what hex do we need to remove this time before someone dies?" once the deed was done. They were just evil and skeevy. Not all of them, he didn't generalize, just the creepy ones that went way too far into black magic. Not the goth chicks who wanted to be all dark and mysterious , the truly bad ones. White witches had a creed; do no harm and they stuck to it. The Winchesters had no quarrel with the Glendas of the world, it was the ones that thought nothing of skinning and gutting whatever the hell that used to be that was nailed to the wall beside him with a big Dean handprint in it. The ones that were taking people and killing them to please whatever crack pot god they settled on or to further their power. Those had to go. They'd said goodbye to humanity when they started sacrificing people. They had chosen to be monsters and Dean just didn't get that.

That was one reason.

The other was that a bad witch had turned him into a girl once. For a whole fucking week. While said girl was having "that time of the month". He could still hear the echo of Sam's laughter in his head, tears of mirth flowing down his face. Bitch. He could have moved past that, after some serious alcohol abuse to help him repress it, but they found out that she'd also cursed him to die and that the girl thing was just a distraction. Killing him was one thing, but giving him tits too? That was just rude and pretty much sealed all evil black witches' fate. No mercy.

It didn't take long to track down who was getting large shipments of licorice root in the vicinity of the murders; one Mary Henning, forty five years of age. They had broken into her house while she was out and found her altar in a hidden room in the basement. It was a picture perfect example of a black altar; human bones, blood, symbols that just looked evil. They had sent some pictures to Bobby who confirmed that she was into some seriously bad mojo and he had warned them to be extra careful. So they had a suspect.

Some surveillance on the woman had led them to a shack out in the middle of nowhere that was window dressing to what could best be described as a cavern. They went in early in the morning when they knew Mary Henning was safely at work. They hadn't seen anyone else show up there in the time they watched the site, but didn't rule out that there had to be more people involved. They did find some bones with just a bit of digging, definitely human. There was definitely some bad shit going on. Their main goal was to try and find any captives. There were currently a dozen missing persons reports out for the vicinity of the disappearances, so they were hoping to find some of them here, hopefully alive. They would deal with the witch or witches later.

They were armed with the usual stuff, but really the guns would suffice. All evidence to the contrary, Mary Henning was human. She might be a bit souped up in one way or the other, but they hadn't met a black witch yet that could withstand a bullet. Okay, well there was that one time in New Mexico, but that guy had made some crazy pact with a demon for immortality, so that didn't really count. Dean could still remember the little pieces of him still crawling around, something reserved for the special nightmares that made it impossible to go back to sleep.

With a shudder at the memory, Dean started forward again. He needed to meet back up with Sam, he didn't like either one of them being alone down here. It wasn't likely they were going to run into anyone, but it wasn't smart to not keep it mind as a possibility. He had tried his cell, but there was no service down here. So all he could do was press onward and hope that their paths would converge soon.

He passed a few more dead things hanging like serial killer wall art, shaking his head in repugnance and trying to keep his eyes firmly forward so they didn't start playing a game of 'Guess the Furry!'. He was grossed out enough. Grossed out didn't quite cover it when what was hanging on the walls started to look human. A healthy dose of good old fashioned rage sparked within him then. There was going to be some serious payback for all those people. He finally saw some light ahead, the soft warm color and gentle flickering telling him it was candlelight.

Coming into a large open room, Dean capped off his lighter and stuffed it away, hoping it didn't burn a hole in his jacket. He pulled his gun out in preparation. Black candles ringed the room, four layers thick, light dancing against the rough and craggy walls, reflecting glassily off the damp surface. It looked like a natural formation that had been smoothed out with use over the years. The floor was all rock, still rough and pitted, but with clear footpaths that had been worn into the stone. There was a set of stairs carved into the stone wall right over where he had entered the room. This cavern had obviously been in use for a while.

In the center of the room there was an oddly shaped…thing. Dean started towards it, head cocked in curiosity. It was large, it would come up to his chest and was maybe two feet in diameter, and vaguely cylindrical, tapering up towards the top. It appeared to be made out of a milky white stone that almost appeared translucent in the dull light. It reminded him of moonstone. It was mostly smooth and formless. As Dean drew closer, he could almost swear that he could see movement inside the stone, swirling and floating, but when he tried to focus on it, he could see nothing. It was actually quite beautiful in a creepy, disquieting sort of way. It didn't help that the floor around it was dyed dark with what could only be dried blood.

Dean's eyes moved over the rest of the room, noting the tunnel he had entered in and counting two others. He figured Sam would be popping out of tunnel at the head of the stairs. Across the room was another tunnel. That's where he figured the abducted people would be if they were even there at all. Sam would have his head if he headed back without him, so he decided to head up the stairs to meet up with his brother. He was only half way up when he heard something that could only be described as a cry, followed by a laugh, echoing out from the other tunnel at the back of the large room.

He hesitated only a moment, peering into the darkness that flooded the tunnel at the top of the stairs, hoping to see the beam of Sam's flashlight, but there was nothing but endless black. His jaw clenched in frustrated indecision, worried that Sam hadn't yet arrived into the room and worried that one of the people they were searching for was getting hurt or worse while he sat there with his thumb up his ass.

Sam would want him to save the innocents, even though Dean's first thought was always Sam.

There was another cry that grew into a scream of agony. Dammit.

Decision made, Dean darted back down the stairs, snatching up a candle, hissing as his fingers closed around the burning wax. He plowed into the back tunnel, the candle wavering madly at his flight, gun held ready. He spilled into a smaller room lit again with candles, the dull bars of cages lining the walls greeting him. There were people moving inside, a hand reaching out for him. That's all he was able to register before something flew into him from the left side and he was tossed into one of the cages, the bars crashing against his hip and shoulder painfully, his elbow lodging inside. The candle flew out if his hand to land somewhere hopefully not flammable, but his gun was still secure in his hand.

Dean righted himself, yanking his arm free in a move he was sure probably shaved a few inches off his elbow, his left arm swinging out in reflex, catching something soft and warm before his fist knocked into a body. He turned quickly, seeing a hooded figure standing in front of him holding some sort of staff that appeared to be made out of mostly metal. The staff swung for him before he could take aim, slapping right into his right forearm. Agony burned up inside him, his hand flying open in reflex, the gun flying away to knock over some candles. Hooded guy was a quick bastard.

Shoving the pain down, instinctively knowing his arm was hurt and not broken, Dean managed to catch the staff on the next swing, grinning coldly at the figure before him as he smacked it into the person's face.

"How do you like it?" Dean asked snidely.

His attacker staggered back under the blow, further aided by Dean's foot kicking brutally into their stomach. The staff was suddenly Dean's as his opponent flew back to land in some of the candles, the loud, panicked shout that emitted when his robes caught fire clarifying that it was a man.

Turning back to the cages, he saw that they were all closed up with the same rusty locks. He caught the gaze of the people inside, could hear their pleading over the man's screaming. A few quick swings of the staff broke the locks and Dean was yanking the cells open.

"Go! Down the tunnel and up the stairs!" he ordered, ushering them out of their prisons.

He saw at least four familiar faces from their case file and another three that he didn't recognize. One of the ones he identified had been missing for four months. The quick once overs he gave them revealed that all of them were hurt in one way or another, but everyone seemed mobile enough. Once the cells were emptied, he looked back over at this attacker, noting that he was still struggling to put the fire out on his robes. He heard a scream and Dean turned sharply, prepared to do battle again when he saw that one of the women in the lead had run into the Winchester version of the Jolly Green Giant, aka. Sam.

He could understand her scream.

Sam was covered in some dark, sticky looking substance, his hulking height made to look even more intimidating in the tight confines of the tunnel. He immediately crouched down to try and calm the terrified woman before him, his earnest eyes gleaming in the light. It was working, she was settling down, her trembling shoulders stilling as his soothing tone eased her flayed nerves. Dean shook his head in admiration. Freaked out women to skittish animals; puppy dog eyes worked every time.

"Sammy, you all right?" Dean called out. He had looked over Sam carefully and didn't see anything wrong other than that he needed a shower stat.

"I managed to fall into a mud pit straight from hell, but yeah. You?" Sam called back, using his huge hand to guide people past him into the tunnel. His eyes rested on the burning man in the corner.

"Spiffy. Get them out of here, I'm going to finish up with the Witch King wannabe over here," he responded, searching around for his gun. Said wannabe was still rolling about on the floor. He must have soaked his robes in gasoline or something, they just weren't going out.

Good.

Sam didn't argue. Dean guessed that Sammy figured that Dean could handle himself against a lot worse than a half burned man, even if he was a witch. Dean agreed.

"I'll head back in when I get them clear," Sam called back and the darkness of the tunnel swallowed him up.

Dean found his gun between a couple of cells and he picked it up, checking it over quickly to make sure it wasn't damaged. That would have really pissed him off. He headed back over to the man, staff in one hand, gun in the other. He had finally managed to get the fire mostly out, smoke still billowing from what was left of his robe. Dean flinched in revulsion when he noticed that he was naked underneath and it wasn't a pretty sight.

"So Flames, I have a few questions and you're gonna answer them. If you don't, well, I can see all sorts of tender pieces I can smack around with this handy dandy stick of yours until you do. So let's make it easy, huh?" Dean cajoled, using his flask of holy water to douse the rest of the flames. The man hissed as the water touched his flesh. If a witch was evil enough, had done enough horrible things, they could be affected by holy water. That didn't help to endear him to Dean one little bit.

Flames growled up at him, his eyes flashing an unsettling blend of red and blue. Yeah, this guy was way off the human reservation. His nose was clearly broken, tilting to a side that nature had never intended, blood gushing like a broken faucet. There were red patches of skin showing through the robes, but didn't look worse than a sunburn. As long as he was on fire, he should have at least second degree burns. Damn witches, always cheating.

"Hunter!" he spat like it was a bad word.

"Yep, a getting really pissed off hunter, so you might want to watch your tone," Dean warned. There was a loud voice in his head yelling at him to just kill him and be done with it before something happened, because something always did, but he really did need some answers.

"Are there more of you creepshows walking around down here or are you the only one on guard duty?" Dean asked, twirling the staff experimentally, preparing to carry out his threat.

Flames' eyes darted around, searching for what Dean didn't know, but it was enough hesitation that Dean decided he needed prompting. He smacked the staff into his thigh, hard enough to get his point across, but not so hard that it would cause any real damage. The man huddling on the floor growled again, teeth clenched.

"Next time I go after something more vulnerable," Dean informed him, glancing meaningfully at his groin.

"You can't hurt me, I am beyond you. Moros himself grants me power you could not.."

"Even imagine, blah blah, blah. I've heard it before. Well your Moros doesn't seem to care if you bleed," Dean cut in with a drawling tone. Then his eyes hardened, all hints of humor gone, replaced with loathing and determination. "Now you listen to me. You aren't leaving here alive. The shit you people do, you've earned your death sentence. The only thing you can do now is make it easy on yourself. Tell me what I want to know and I'll make it quick. It's no skin off my back if you want me to get it out of you, I cleared my calendar today, but thought you might care. So what's it going to be?" Dean finished, a lethal promise filling every word.

A glob of spit hitting his forehead was the only answer he was given. Dean pulled back, wiping the moisture away with his sleeve. "That's just gross," he groaned, lip curled in disgust.

He went to use the staff again to prod his captive, but before he could, Flames jerked upward, sweeping a handful of candles up at Dean's face. Dean recoiled, feeling the hot wax spilling onto his throat and shirt even as he cursed himself for thinking the man was hurt more than he clearly was. Flames was off the ground and running out of the room, the tattered shreds of his robe trailing behind him. Dean swiftly followed behind, this time prepared to use the gun. He and Sammy could search more thoroughly for more captives or witches later, he didn't need to get it out of the witch.

Once in the big room, Dean took aim and fired. Flames darted to the side at the last moment, the bullet hitting the strange figurine in the center of the room. He stilled suddenly and turned, panic and fear flaring over his face. He moved to the block it with his body, hands held out beseechingly towards a very confused Dean.

"No! Don't harm it!" he cried out.

Dean thought that was a bit strange, but thought he could make it work for him.

"That? You don't want me to harm your pretty statue?" he asked, pointing towards it with the gun. The plea in the man's eyes told him what he needed. "Hmmm…how about you answer my questions and I don't wreck your artwork, deal?" he offered.

Flames started to mutter under his breath, hate filled eyes focused on Dean. He couldn't hear the words, but the lyrical quality to them warned Dean what was happening. He was getting ready to cast a spell. He was surprised it took him so long to try. Not gonna happen.

Batter up.

Dean shot the man in the shoulder and when he lurched away from the impact and pain, he pocketed the gun and gripped the staff in both hands. With a swing that would make Babe Ruth jealous, Dean aimed right at the middle of the figurine, wondering if he should have checked if it could even be broken that way so he didn't end up shattering his bones, but too late now. Right before impact, in an impossible move of speed and dexterity, Flames was back in front of the statue. Dean couldn't pull back.

The staff hit both the statue and Flames all at once. A shock wave of pain blasted into Dean's already injured arm, the other screaming out to join it, his shoulders, back and even teeth sharing the agony. It was worth it though. The stone shattered in the middle, white shards flying everywhere. Flames was equally unlucky. The staff caught him in the ribs, the blood erupting from his mouth telling a story of punctured lungs from shattered ribs.

Dean's numb hands dropped the staff. He wasn't going to be getting anything out of Flames after all. The man fell to the floor, gasping for breath that his shredded lungs could no longer hold. If he wasn't a human sacrificing douche bag, Dean might actually feel some sympathy. He'd had punctured a lung before, more than once. It wasn't fun. His lips were moving, but there was no sound. Fearing another spell, Dean pulled his gun again, when Flames went slack. Dean tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that settled over him as the man died with a smile on his face.

Because he was paying attention to that, he missed the pearly pink smoke that rose up from the statue to crawl around his ankles, wind its way up to his back and disappear inside him.


	3. Chapter 3

Present Day

"You want to run that by me again? I did what now?" Dean asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed as he leaned back against the headboard of his bed.

Sam ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, the other hand tapping agitatedly on the table he was seated at. Dean was still sitting on the bed, having just woken up only minutes ago. Sam acknowledged that he probably pounced on his brother a little too soon with his questions, Dean wasn't exactly at his sharpest first thing, but sitting there for hours watching Dean sleep with them all swirling in his brain had depleted any patience he may have had.

After Sam had managed to get his only slightly coherent brother back in the room, Dean proceeded to collapse face down on the bed. At first, Sam had panicked thinking that something had happened, but Dean was just sleeping, his arm curling up under his pillow to rest on the handle of his knife just like he did most times when he went to sleep. Sam had not been able to wake him and since he didn't seem to be in any sort of distress, he just covered up Dean's still trembling body and let him sleep. Sam longed to do the same himself, but he couldn't risk that there might be a repeat of what had happened, whatever it was that had really happened. So he consumed copious amounts of coffee and ruminated over the possible things that may have caused this to keep himself awake while he watched over Dean to make sure his big brother didn't go walkabout again.

"You were in some kind of trance, just standing in the middle of the road. I was trying to get you inside and you were fighting me, kept saying that you had to wait until 2:08am for a truck," Sam explained, sticking to the facts and trying to keep the concern from leaking in too much so he didn't get Dean's back up too early. He hated to be fussed over, especially by Sam.

Dean looked away to process, brows furrowed as he went over Sam's words. "Huh," was all he managed to say.

"And when 2:08 rolled around, a truck came barreling through, but it wasn't really there. It was like a death echo," Sam continued, remembering the headlights, the roar of the engine, the image of the truck going over the spot his brother had been standing only moments before.

"Okay, that's pretty weird," Dean commented with a crooked smile. "Well it's not like a death echo would do anything, it's about as harmless as flavored vodka."

"True, but why the hell would you be standing out there like that if it was just to watch an instant replay? Do you remember anything about it? Did you have a dream or something?" Sam asked, watching Dean closely.

Dean was already shaking his head to Sam's questions. "No, I got nothing. I went to bed, passed out, then woke up with your ugly mug staring at me like you were wondering how my liver would taste."

"I was not staring at you," Sam denied, though he knew it had probably looked that way. Dean would wake up just when Sam had been checking on him. "How do you feel now?" Sam asked.

Shrugging, Dean said, "Fine. I'm hungry and I could seriously use some coffee, but other than that, I'm good."

Sam's mouth twisted in worry and frustration. He had been hoping Dean would have some answers to what had happened to him. It was just too weird and too far outside normal for him to just let it go. Dean swung his legs over to the side of the bed and stood, stretching his arms above his head with a face splitting yawn. He pulled on his jeans and overshirt that had been discarded on top of his duffle.

"Maybe I was just sleep walking Sammy," Dean suggested, ambling over to join Sam at the table.

"And how many times in your life have you done that, Dean?" Sam challenged, a bit of irritation at his brother's lack of concern creeping into his voice.

"Hey, I always said I'm up to try anything once," Dean drawled with a grin.

Sam wasn't mollified. "What happened in that cavern when we were separated?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Dean's eyes skipped away at that, resting on anything but Sam. Now he was getting somewhere. Sam had already decided it had to have something to do with the witch coven, he just wanted to make sure there wasn't something else involved first.

"You know what happened. I killed the witch that had been with the hostages," Dean replied, eyes finally meeting his.

"Uh huh. And what else?" Sam prompted with hard eyes.

He could read his brother like a book most of the time, there were very few exceptions to that and it usually involved Dean trying to hide his anger or his pain. Then there were the times when Dean had done something that he knew he was going to get yelled at for doing and he would try to avoid actually coming out with it. He would talk around it, make excuses for it before even saying what it actually was he had done. Sam couldn't remember what Dean had looked like when he was a young child, but he imagined he could see hints of that little boy in his brother's face when he got like that. And he was getting like that now.

"Aw come on Sam, I just had some weird ass dream and decided to get some air. It's not like this is the first time we've seen a death echo, we see them all the time in our line of work. Little much for coincidence, sure, but hey stranger things have happened, right?" he asked, just a little desperately.

Sam leaned forward over the table to stare down his brother, fists clenched. "Dean, something happened. Now maybe it's a one off, but we don't get lucky like that, so it's probably the start of something that's going to get bad. Now tell me what happened when you were alone," he demanded.

Sighing in defeat, Dean slumped back in the chair, taking up Sam's previous cross armed position. He seemed to be finding the fake wood grain of the table very fascinating all of sudden, his eyes not leaving it.

"Well I did destroy that idol," Dean mumbled sheepishly, almost inaudible.

It was enough for Sam to hear. "What idol?" he asked, head tilted as he tried to remember if he had seen anything like that.

"The one they had in the center of the big room," Dean answered, his attention now caught by the clock on the wall. Anything to keep from looking at the brother getting rapidly pissed off across from him.

"Dean.." Sam bit out warningly.

"What?" Dean cried out, breaking under Sam's glare. "He was pissing me off, I wanted to return the favor," he explained.

Sam's hands came up to cover his face. "Dammit Dean!" This was not good.

"Look, I know all right?" Dean said in a subdued sigh, all agitation drained out of him. "I didn't think about it until afterward, I was trying to get him to talk. Nothing happened, I just figured it was a stone and nothing more."

"Well something happened." Sam wasn't sure what, but it was at least a place to start.

"We don't know if destroying that stone had anything to do with my little walk last night," Dean started.

"Oh right, because destroying the idol of a black magic coven couldn't possibly have some nasty side effects," Sam said, the sarcasm probably applied thicker than it needed to be. Dean was chastened, he didn't need to rub it in.

"Well we killed the guy inside and then we got Mary Henning on our way out, so whatever unpleasant surprise that may have been attached to destroying their toy should have died with them, right?" Dean asked thoughtfully.

Sam shrugged. Witches weren't really their specialty. "Sometimes. Maybe. I don't really know. We'll need to check with Bobby."

"Or maybe we didn't get them all," Dean suggested, his gaze finally raising to Sam's. Sam had considered the possibility. "Well I'm all for checking with Bobby. If the worse thing that's going to happen is that I'm going to walk around in my shorts in the cold to see some death in 3D, I can deal with that for a while."

"I just feel like there's going to be more to this," Sam said sadly. Without a single doubt in his mind, he knew that this was going to get worse. He could feel it and clearly Dean did too.

"Yeah, probably. Kind of runs in the family. I'm going to take a shower and then we can start making some calls, all right?" With those words, Dean headed into the bathroom, making a quick stop by his duffle to grab a change of clothes.

Sam watched him go, fighting down the urge to go with him. He knew exactly how Dean would react to that and it would involve some mixture of disdain, mocking and fists, but he was leery of letting him out of his sight. What he saw last night, the state Dean had been in, was troubling him. Dean was his rock, his stability. He always said nothing bad would happen to Sam while he was around and Sam believed it like his own personal Bible. It was his faith. If this was only the start of something big, what did it mean for them if Dean couldn't defend himself, much less Sam?

There was no sign that Dean had ever been out of it today. He was fully alert and aware, acting like he always did. Maybe it was brought on by sleep, when the mind was relaxed and vulnerable. The question was, what was the point of it? Sure, something bad could happen to him if he was wandering about without being all there, but it seemed like such a backwards way to go about harming someone. If it was a curse or a spell, then he knew for a fact that there were much easier and quicker ways to do someone in. So why the trance? Why the death echo? Why the specific time?

There was one thing he could do for the time being. He could confirm that the incident with the truck had indeed been a death echo. He already searched around the web last night while watching Dean sleep, and came up empty. It's possible that if there had been an accident outside the motel that it happened before everything was available online. The motel certainly looked like it had been built about twelve centuries ago and come to think of it, so did the manager. He had to be in his seventies at least, assuming he'd been working at the motel a while, he should know.

He was still a bit hesitant about leaving Dean alone, but he had to do it sometime. Dean wasn't going to let him get away with the hovering. Sam headed towards the bathroom door and rapped on it sharply.

"Ten more minutes!" Dean called out over the rush of water.

"Hey, I'm going to the office for a minute. Be right back," Sam called back.

"Whatever dude," Dean replied back.

Sam threw on some clothes and headed outside to the office. The lights were on, so he was hoping the manager would be on duty. A quick glance in the window confirmed that he was; he spotted the white haired man bent over a newspaper on the counter. Sam opened the door, the bell chime announcing his arrival. The manager looked up at him over his reading glasses, but didn't straighten.

"Need something, son?" he asked.

"Maybe, you worked here long?" Sam inquired.

"Yep, pretty much all my life. My daddy owned it before me. Why do you ask?" The manager stood up then, pulling off his glasses and setting them on the newspaper.

"Do you recall an accident happening outside the motel? With a semi and a pedestrian?" Sam asked.

The old man's brow furrowed. "Kind of a weird question to ask," he commented, eyes narrowing on Sam.

Sam smiled, hoping it looked innocent and harmless. "Yeah, I know. I have a friend, believes in ghosts. Thinks that the road is haunted or something. Crazy, right?"

"Well maybe not so crazy. About forty years ago, a woman was hit just outside the motel by a semi truck. Messiest thing I ever saw," the manager explained.

It was definitely a positive ID for a death echo. "You have any idea what time it happened?"

The old man thought for a minute, eyes staring into space. "It was real early in the morning. Twoish maybe? Can't recall for certain."

"Anyone ever see anything out there where it happened? Lights, noise?" Sam probed.

"Nope, not that I'm aware."

If it was indeed a death echo, why had no one else ever seen it? Of course, that time of night, it wouldn't be something that people might see. Who the hell was walking around in the middle of nowhere outside a motel at two in the morning?

"Thanks," Sam said, turning to head back to the room. "Oh hey," he started, pausing by the door and turning back. "No one died in any of the rooms, did they?"

He had clearly stepped over a bit of a line and he was getting "the look" from the manager now. The one that said he would definitely get reminded about check out time before the walked out of there. "No," he stated slowly, eyeing Sam suspiciously.

"Great, thanks," he said, heading back out the door.

"Check out time's at noon!" followed him. Yep, he knew his motel managers. Or maybe he just knew when he tripped people's crazy meters.

Dean was already out of the shower and on the phone when Sam came back in. Dean glanced up at him and mouthed "Bobby". Sam nodded and started to pack up.

"I know, Bobby, Sam's already given me the bitch face to end all bitch faces, I got it," Dean was saying.

Bobby must have had the same reaction to Dean destroying the idol that Sam did. Sam could vaguely hear Bobby's voice over the earpiece, which meant that he had to be pretty much yelling.

"Tell you what, if I bring you some scotch, will that be enough to untwist your knickers?" Dean offered.

Sam was pretty sure that was not the right thing to say. When Dean winced as the volume increased, he was knew he was right.

"Okay, okay! Apparently sense of humor dries up with old age too. We should be there in a couple of days. Thanks Bobby." Dean ended the call, a relieved "Phew," passing his lips. "And I thought you were pissed".

"What did he say?" Sam prompted.

"Well he's not too sure what's going on, but he thinks it would be best if we're nearby. He's going to do some research on Moros, that's who the witch said they worshipped and see if he can find anything on the idol based on my description,' Dean relayed, starting to gather up his things.

"Sounds like a plan. I'm driving," Sam stated.

That brought Dean's attention back to him in a nano second. "The hell you are," Dean argued.

"Dean, you were seriously out of it last night. Do you really want to chance having that happen while you're at the wheel?" Sam questioned.

"Sam, I've been fine all morning," Dean reasoned.

"We don't know what brought it on and until we do, I think it would be best if you don't drive. I'd like to make it to Bobby's alive," Sam insisted.

There really wasn't much for Dean to argue. He knew Sam was right, it was all in the grudging way he tossed Sam the keys.

"All right, but the driver music rule doesn't apply when I'm blackmailed into it," Dean stated.

Sam would give him that victory. It was going to be a long enough drive to Bobby's as it was.


	4. Chapter 4

"Wake up, Dean!"

Sam's command was backed up by a smack to his shoulder, jolting Dean out of the comfortable place he had been drifting into, lulled by the sound of the road passing under the car's tires and Metallica. His head that had been leaning against the window moved more quickly than he was prepared for and he grimaced at the dull ache behind his eyes that made itself known with the movement. Glaring balefully at Sam, he rubbed his fingers into his temples, trying to soothe away the pain.

"Jeeze Sam, I just wanted a few minutes. I didn't get all my beauty sleep last night," Dean complained, breaking off to emit a yawn that gaped his mouth to baboon like proportions.

"Sorry Dean," Sam started, glancing over at his brother with a rueful smile. "I told you, no sleeping until we get to Bobby's. If sleep triggers it, then the car isn't the place to have it happen. What if you try to jump out or something? No amount of beauty sleep is going to fix that road rash."

Dean wanted to argue, but didn't. He may not be able to remember what happened to him, but he could see how freaked Sam was by it and he wasn't one to get all worked up over nothing. Well, unless Dean was hurt, that seemed to throw Sammy in a frenzy that resulted in a strange mixture of mother henning, guilt tripping, and bullying. So it was possible that Sam was making a fuss and being overly cautious for nothing, but Dean had to admit that even he was more than a little unsettled about what Sam had told him he'd done. He didn't like the thought that he hadn't been in control of his body, that he had been compelled, possessed, forced into action without him needing to even be present for it.

Damn witches.

"Yeah, all right," Dean agreed with a sigh. He glanced out the window, seeing a sign announcing a town in a few miles. "But I'm going to need some assistance of the caffeinated kind if I'm going to manage something approaching 'awake'. Stop at the next gas station, will ya?"

"I'll fill up too," Sam said. Dean had noted that the gas gauge was down to a quarter tank when they hit the motel last night. That wouldn't get them far. She was a thing of beauty, but she was thirsty as hell.

Settling back down into the seat, Dean contemplated turning up the music, but the headache was steadily growing and he figured that wouldn't help. He would take a few pain killers to help knock it down when they stopped. In the meantime, he was attempting to force his eyelids to stay at least at half mast, trying to ignore how heavy they felt, how dry and scratchy his eyes were. He wasn't sure why he was so tired. Well that wasn't true, he existed in a space between exhausted and asleep consistently, but he was better at fighting it than this. He considered asking Sam for just a ten minute nap, but one glance at his brother showed that Sam was already looking over at him again, furrowed brow and worried eyes showing that he was ready to pounce if Dean let go.

With a sigh, Dean sat up straighter in his seat, rolling down the window to let cool wind blow on his face, hoping it would help keep him going until he was able to get some coffee. "You know, if this is some kind of spell or curse, or whatever, it doesn't seem like much," he said, more to give himself something to do than anything else.

Sam glanced over. "Well we don't really know for sure what it is, Dean."

"I know, but the witches were pretty easy to kill. The guy actually fought me, he didn't start doing any spells until their rock was in danger. What kind of witch steps up for fist fight instead of just throwing some mojo at you?" Dean asked, starting to get a bit more interested in the conversation. He hadn't thought about it before, but it was strange that the witch didn't do any spells to stop him. Sure, Sam and Dean had protection against magical harm, but the witch didn't know that and they certainly didn't protect them from everything.

"Maybe he didn't, but Mary Henning certainly did. She threw you into a tree, dude. And let's not forget the blood I was spitting up from whatever she did to my insides," Sam reminded him.

Dean's gaze drifted back out the window, his eyes on the trees passing by them, but that wasn't what he was seeing. He had gone back to that place and he was remembering something he had missed before. After they left the cavern, they had been confronted by a seriously pissed off Mary Henning. After throwing something nasty at Sam that had him on his knees and choking on his own blood, Dean had indeed been thrown into a tree. He lay there, stunned and breathless, and looked up to see the witch coming for him, her face promising an agonizing death when she stopped short, something almost like shock taking over her features, before it turned to something else he hadn't been able to identify at the time. Thinking back on it now, it looked like…adoration. She had been reaching for him, her eyes soft and caring, when Sam put a bullet in her head. There had been nothing in her eyes after that.

He thought he should mention it to Sam, but he wasn't sure it had really happened. Maybe he had imagined it. His head had been ringing pretty good, tree trunks weren't known for their softness. Dean certainly couldn't think of any reason she would look at him like he was something precious.

And maybe that's exactly why he should say something about it.

"Uh Sam, this will sound a bit weird," he started, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. That earned him another one of Sam's suspiciously concerned glances. "but the witch, Mary Henning, when she got close to me and got a look at me, it looked like she didn't want to hurt me. I almost thought she was going to help me or something, like she cared that I was hurt." Saying the words didn't help it make any more sense than it did in his head, in fact, it sounded worse. Should have kept it to himself.

Lips pursed in contemplation, Sam's head tilted as he let the words sink in and tossed over the possible meanings. "Yeah, I got nothing. That's weird," he came back with a shrug.

"Thanks, that's helpful," Dean grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. It wasn't out of irritation, he was getting cold. He considered rolling up the window, but decided against it. At least he was staying conscious. "Maybe she just felt bad for hurting such perfection, huh Sammy?" Dean said with a tired smile.

Sam just shook his head and ignored the comment. "We'll be sure to mention it to Bobby, it might mean something to him depending on what he's dug up." Seeing the exit for the town, Sam signaled and made his way off the freeway.

Dean could barely contain his relief to be heading towards caffeine and cheap food mecca, staring at the gas station rapidly approaching with needy eyes. Getting to his bag in the trunk to grab the pain killers was first on the list when they stopped. His headache was now approaching epic proportions, his hair even seemed like it hurt. If the caffeine didn't work and the pills didn't cut out the headache, Dean was just going to tell Sam to tie him up, cuff him, whatever he needed to do so that he would be okay with Dean sleeping it off.

They pulled into the gas station, Sam stopping next to a pump. "Need anything?" Dean asked, already thrusting the door open. He quickly snatched the keys before Sam could take them out of the ignition. "Trunk," he said when Sam looked like he was going to argue.

"Coffee would be good," Sam replied, also moving to get out of the car.

"One girly ass coffee coming up," Dean promised, sliding out of the car. The shift in altitude threw his head into an agonizing spin. The pain caused him to bend slightly forward, one eye squeezing shut as he rode it out, hand clenched on the door to keep himself in place. Damn, this one was a real winner. Pulling himself up, he started for the back of the car when he felt something jerk to awareness inside him; a cold, alien presence that had no business being inside his head, his body. He was about to call out to Sam when it spoke to him.

And he had no choice but to listen.

###### 

Sam ran one of their ill-gotten credit cards through the reader on the pump, offering a silent prayer that it would go through. He breathed a sigh of relief when it took and he grabbed the nozzle and headed towards the back of the car. He saw Dean heading in the same direction before he hesitated and turned towards the store. Sam watched him for a moment, saw nothing to be concerned about and proceeded to fill up the car. He knew Dean had a headache, likely brought on by lack of sleep and caffeine and figured he had been intending to grab his aspirin before anything else. He must have decided that coffee was the more pressing matter.

He didn't like that Dean was having such a hard time staying awake. That was definitely not normal. Both he and Dean were used to going without sleep; that was something their Dad didn't even need to teach them. Years of running and dodging after creatures at night and trying to go to school during the day had trained them to function on well below the bare minimum of sleep. That didn't mean they didn't get tired, they lived tired and slept when they could, be it in a motel, the car or just the ground, but it did mean that they could resist the pull of exhaustion successfully. Dean's inability to fight it off was just cementing his belief that whatever was going on could only happen when he was asleep.

They could not get to Bobby's fast enough.

Settling back against the car, Sam folded his arms and looked over towards the store. He could see Dean just inside, standing by the counter. His eyes started to drift away, when something he had seen finally sunk into his brain and he looked back to where his brother was standing. Dean was literally just standing by the counter, his eyes fixed on a spot above the register. His arms were loose and empty at his sides. Sam didn't have the right angle to see if there was anything on the counter, but he felt something wasn't right. Dean was too still.

Oh shit, it was happening again.

Sam started to run towards the store when he saw Dean turn away and head over to the coffee machines, plucking up a couple of cups from the styrofoam tower beside them. It was completely normal, nothing unusual about it. Sam skidded to stop, earning himself a curious look from a man filling up his truck. He continued to watch Dean, seeing him filling up a cup, glancing over at the spot on the wall every few seconds. Maybe it was just a TV. In fact, that made more sense than thinking Dean was in a trance and managing to pour coffee without getting it all over himself. Dean had been catatonic last night, just standing in the road. That certainly wasn't the case now.

Deciding on better safe than sorry, Sam decided to head in anyway. If nothing was going on, he didn't need to tell Dean that he had been worried about him, that could be his little secret. Dean didn't have any qualms about sticking to Sam like glue if he thought something was wrong, but that right did not extend to little brothers doing the same to big brothers.

Starting forward again, he pulled up short as a truck started going through the lot, waiting for it to pass. When it did, he saw that Dean was no longer at the coffee machines and there were two abandoned cups steaming beside it. There was no Dean in sight which escalated his panic level to somewhere around DefCon 1. There were lots of reasons for Dean to not be where he was only seconds before; bathroom, skin mag display, junk food aisle, but Sam wasn't interested in guessing.

Sam ran into the store, eyes immediately darting over the aisles looking for his brother. There was no one in the store besides the clerk behind the counter. Sam could feel his breathing speeding up to match the racing rush of his blood as his heart started to pound heavily.

"Hey," Sam called out, getting the young man's attention. The kid looked up from his car magazine with a bored look. "There was a guy just in here. A bit shorter than me, light brown hair, leather jacket? Did you see where he went?" Sam asked him, urgency and alarm dripping from every word.

The kid pointed towards the back of the store. "Yeah, he went out the back. Shouldn't really let him, but I don't make enough to try and stop him. I don't want to end up like Jerry," he said with a grimace.

Sam wanted to ask him about that, but he wanted to get to Dean first. Before turning to head in Dean's direction, he looked up at the area Dean had been staring at. When he saw what was there, he felt dread crawl into his chest and throat choking off his breath.

It was a clock.

Breaking into a run, Sam reached the back door quickly, dodging around several boxes that had been stacked outside the small room beside it. The door was slightly ajar, a line of brightness outlining the edges. Sam burst through, head swinging around wildly, looking for his brother.

Dean was just to the side of the door by some palettes facing into the empty field behind the store. He didn't react to Sam's arrival. "Dean!" Sam called out, coming around to face his brother, terrified by the sight of his dead eyes. Dean's blank eyes stared through him, the skin on his face so pale that Sam could almost see the veins beneath his skin, could map each individual freckle. It was strangely reminiscent of their position last night.

"Are you…?"

Before Sam could finish his question, he felt the already cold air become impossibly frigid, almost freezing his breath in his chest. He wasn't sure what was happening, but it didn't matter. He had to get Dean back to the car before it did.

Sam tensed to start the battle of dragging Dean away when he saw Dean's image distort, a wavering of light and lines, like someone had projected an image of a person onto Dean's body. Sam knew what he was looking at, he had just seen something very like it only a few hours before. It was a death echo. Sam felt something pass through the area around his navel, a pressure that froze his insides to match his outsides. He looked down in confusion to see a translucent arm sticking out of him, felt Dean jerk in his hands. He followed the arm to its hand, clenched around the handle of a knife, but that's where it ended.

Because the knife was buried in Dean's stomach.

And then it was all gone, the arm running through him, the overlay of the person on top of Dean. Sam didn't truly start to worry until he saw the blood starting to coat Dean's shirt. Blood that shouldn't, couldn't, be there. Death echoes were just images, they had no substance. The knife should have passed right through Dean like it did Sam.

But it didn't. Dean had been stabbed and as he caught his collapsing brother in his arms, Sam wasn't sure they were going to make it to Bobby's.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam grunted as he bent to keep his brother's dead weight..no not dead weight, unconscious weight, he thought furiously, from sending them both to the ground. He tried to swallow down the rising panic, to fight through the paralyzing fear, but he was losing the battle. He was so full of worry and confusion that he was having a hard time concentrating on anything but the fact that his brother was bleeding in his arms due to an injury received from what basically amounted to a hologram. Feeling the warm wetness of Dean's blood soak into his own shirt flipped the "calm" switch to on. He would worry about the hows and the whys later. Right now he had to keep Dean breathing.

He flipped Dean over carefully so he could see the injury, resting his back against the pallets to take some of the weight. Dean's eyes were still open and staring without seeing anything, no sign that he was in any pain evident on his face. It wasn't shock, it was like he simply wasn't there. Sam lifted up his sodden shirt to see the ugly wound in his stomach, still bleeding freely. Being a Winchester, he had dealt with injuries this severe before without the benefit of a hospital, but with Dean already off in whatever universe he'd been dragged too, he didn't want to take any chances. He had no idea what this trance-like state was doing to Dean's body when he was like this.

"You're gonna be all right, Dean," Sam assured him, knowing Dean probably couldn't hear him, but Sam needed to hear the words. He'd said those words to his injured brother many times. So far, he had a one hundred percent success rate with them coming true. He didn't intend to break his streak now.

He'd seen Dean hurt a lot of times, too many times, but a hurt Dean usually meant wise cracks and him being a tough guy, unless he was totally knocked out. It was always obvious that he was in pain, even Dean couldn't control the paleness of skin, the sweat of shock or fever, the clenched jaw against the agony, but he would always do his best to deflect. So to see him like this, bleeding, wounded, but not reacting at all, no jokes, no assurances, just silence was frightening and unsettling in its wrongness.

Sam kicked open the door of the store, hearing in his mind the comment Dean would make about him being able to reach it with his freak legs, shouting for the clerk to call 911. Dean started to slide a bit off the pallets, so Sam adjusted him so that he was pressed firmly against the pallet and Sam. He yanked off his coat and pressed it to the wound, watching Dean's face carefully for any reaction. There was nothing.

The clerk appeared, the irritation in his gaze becoming horrified surprise when he saw the two men covered in blood at the back of his store.

"Did you call 911?" Sam asked impatiently.

The kid just stared, his face rapidly losing all color. "Hey!" Sam barked out fiercely, drawing the clerk's eyes to him in a quick and startled motion. "Go call 911, now!" he shouted.

He nodded and disappeared back inside. Assured that help was on the way, Sam wrapped his free arm around Dean, pressing his jacket even tighter against the wound. If Dean wasn't feeling any pain, might as well take advantage of it. Sam noted with distress that while Dean's expression didn't react to the wound, his body was. His breathing was becoming labored, the breaths panting out of him faster and shallower as every minute passed. His already cold skin seemed to grow even colder, leeching out every degree of heat Sam could offer, all the color stolen from him. Even his normally vibrant green eyes were dull and murky as they stared at nothing.

"I know you're in there somewhere Dean. Just stay with me, okay? We're going to figure this out," Sam said softly, resting his cheek against Dean's hair, unable to look at that lifeless gaze anymore. Maybe it was a test to see if Dean was really in there somewhere and would pound him for doing something so girly. Maybe it was because he just wanted to be as close to his brother as he could get.

Yeah, it was definitely the second one.

###### 

"I know what I saw Bobby! It was a damn death echo of a murder and it almost killed Dean too!" Sam said heatedly into the phone pressed to his ear. A nurse passing by him looked at him in alarm before hurrying away. He was standing outside Dean's hospital room, staring in at his still unconscious brother. Sam knew he should probably be more careful about the volume and content of his words, but right now, he was out of the ability to care about anything except his brother.

"Well that just doesn't make a lick of sense," Bobby muttered. "The worst thing a death echo can do is make you lose your lunch if it's grisly enough. And to come across two of them in two different places within a few hours of each other? I've never even heard of anything like that," he said incredulously.

"Yeah I know, but that's what happened," Sam sighed, dragging a hand through his already rumpled hair from doing the same thing over and over again, just as his eyes kept roving over Dean's still form.

The wound had been bad, but a few stitches inside and outside and the doctors promised he would be as good as new. Sam wasn't as sure. He had asked some carefully veiled questions to see if the trances were having any other health impact on him, but they didn't indicate that there was anything wrong except for the five inch gash into Dean's body.

While Dean was in surgery, Sam had been forced to keep it together enough to deal with the cops. He had still been covered in Dean's blood, not sure of his condition and doing everything he could not to fall apart, but the policemen didn't seem to have much sympathy and demanded to talk to him immediately. That's when Sam caught on that he was the primary suspect and that pissed him off. His statement had been brief to the point of rudeness and luckily there wasn't a camera out back to discredit his story of an unknown assailant. One of the officers had mentioned a similar attack that had happened just a few months ago, even mentioned that it was around the same time. Sam wasn't surprised. That must have been the Jerry that the clerk mentioned. They seemed to buy it, but it was possible they would be back. Sam knew that he had to get them out of there fast before they came back. As soon as Dean woke up.

Dean had been out of surgery for a couple of hours now. No one was concerned that he was still unconscious except for Sam. They didn't know how quickly Dean would come out of recovery, as if he knew exactly when he was fixed and was ready to go before anyone started checking on the insurance. They didn't know, but Sam did and as minutes passed without even a single movement from his injured brother, his anxiety and fear increased that maybe he wouldn't wake up this time. That possibly whatever the witches had done to him had shoved him out of his body for good. He didn't want to think it, wanted to stay positive, but he didn't have a whole lot of good thoughts in him at the moment. Just a bunch of bad ones and even worse questions.

What the hell was going on?

What did those damn witches do to Dean?

What would have happened if he didn't get Dean out of the path of that truck?

If Dean was vulnerable to death echoes, could there possibly be a worse place for him than a hospital where people probably died everyday day?

That last one had got him on the phone with Bobby in a hurry.

"Well you got me what's going on, but we'll figure it out, Sam," Bobby reassured, the calm certainty in his voice transferring to the young man on the other end of the phone.

Sam's eyes closed and he sagged against the door frame. "Thanks Bobby," he breathed gratefully. It was a relief to have someone to share the weight of saving Dean. Dean took care of him, it rarely came down to him to take care of Dean and when it did, Dad was normally there to lead the effort. But Dad was gone now and Sam was terrified he couldn't do it alone, that he would lose his brother, and having Bobby there with his steadfast and pragmatic approach relaxed the tension in his body just a bit.

"I just need some time to gather some stuff up and I'll be on my way to you," Bobby continued. Sam could already hear movement on the other end of the phone, like Bobby was literally getting packed up right that very moment. He probably was.

Sam's eyes jerked open at that. "No, we'll come to you. Something this weird, I think we're going to need the full extent of your library."

A sigh was heard on the other end of the line. "You think your brother can make that trip in his condition?" Bobby asked reasonably.

Sam had been wondering that himself, and knew it wasn't the best idea, but he knew there wasn't another option. What he said was accurate, they were dealing with the unknown and Bobby couldn't possibly bring enough with him to cover it all. "He'll make it. He's traveled with worse." It was true, but it didn't make him feel any better about it. The doctors wanted to keep Dean in the hospital for at least a few more days to make sure there was no risk of infection and to allow the stiches in his guts to take hold, but time was something they didn't have.

"All right,' Bobby said, but the weariness in his tone said that he didn't like it. "I'll make sure I got things set up for Dean and keep researching. If I find anything good, I'll call. Take it easy and for pete's sake, don't let him out of your sight. I got the feeling this might get worse before it gets better," he warned.

Sam smiled grimly. "I will. He won't be getting out of my sight for anything," he promised, staring at his brother's still form.

"Oh he's gonna love that. Might want to make sure you grab some sedatives before you leave the hospital," Bobby said with a chuckle. "See ya kid."

Sam disconnected the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. He headed back into the room, stopping by Dean's bed. He was happy to note that Dean had more color in face now, nowhere near his normal healthy golden glow, but it was better than the sickly fish belly white it had taken on when he had first been brought in. There were less tubes hooked up to him than what Dean normally got in the hospital, but he had the big ones; an IV replacing his lost blood and another one with fluids and medicine.

Slumping down in the chair next to the bed, Sam buried his face in his hands. All he could do now was wait and that was the most excruciating thing about the bedside vigil. He knew technically that Dean was fine, his body would heal and he would just have another scar to keep the other hundreds of them company, but this time there was more to it. Something was after Dean and he had the strong feeling it wasn't going to stop until Dean was dead.

It's not like they could even hide from this. The extremely unusual frequency of the ghost echoes terrified Sam because it could mean that no matter where they went, if someone died there violently, Dean was going to be in danger.

And the worse part?

Sam couldn't defend him.

The knife that went into Dean had gone straight through Sam. He couldn't even take the hits for his brother, couldn't shield him, couldn't fight back. Rock salt didn't work on a death echo because it wasn't really a ghost, it was a snapshot in time. It was like the space it happened in was haunted. Something had happened to put Dean in the same space as the echo so that it was solid there, could harm him. He couldn't keep his brother safe from that forever, it simply wasn't possible.

So there really was only one option and that was to stop it at the source. He knew in his head that there was no one more qualified to suss out what was causing this than Bobby. Not only did he pretty much know everything, or least have a book that did, he loved Dean. He wouldn't admit it at gunpoint, but he did and he would do everything he could to save Dean.

Hearing a rustling beside him, Sam's head jerked up hopefully, a thankful smile spreading over his face when he saw Dean's eyes opened and focused on him as much as he could with all the painkillers running through him. He was back, he could see Dean in those dazed green eyes and he could have almost cried with the relief flooding through him, draining out all the adrenaline that had been tightening up every muscle.

"Hey Dean," he said softly, moving closer to the bed.

Dean's brows dropped over his narrowed eyes, as his confused gaze drifted over Sam, the room, then finally himself, those eyebrows winging back up when he saw exactly where he was laying. "Sammy…what happened?" he whispered, swallowing against the dryness of his throat.

Sam darted up to grab the cup of water with the straw that was beside Dean's bed and held it to his brother's lips so he could drink. After a few swallows, Dean lay back, eyes closed again, a deep sigh leaving him.

"Happened again, huh?" Dean asked, his voice husky and quiet.

"Yeah," Sam replied, working hard to keep his tone even. Dean looked so pale and weak, he couldn't believe he was going to rush him out of there and put him in a car for at least forty eight hours. "Do you remember anything?"

Dean shook his head slowly against the pillow. "Was going to get Tylenol, then it was lights out. I remember something not feeling right, like I wasn't alone in here," he said, gesturing with one weak hand to his body.

That didn't sound good. "Like you were possessed?" Sam asked, watching Dean carefully. If that was the case, he could be possessed right now and Sam wouldn't even know it. He didn't think that was the case, but he didn't want to rule anything out.

"Kind of, I guess, never been possessed," Dean answered, his voice growing more and more weak and tired. "But I don't think so. Don't feel it now. So what happened? On too many drugs, can't tell what hurts."

"You were stabbed in the stomach by a death echo," Sam said flatly. There was really no better way to say it and it sounded as ridiculous now as it did when he said it to Bobby.

The words made Dean's eyes open then, and Sam could read the disbelief there. His mouth worked for a moment as he tried to find the right words to say. "I know I'm on some serious drugs right now, but I'm pretty sure you just said I got stabbed by a death echo," he said doubtfully.

Sam didn't say anything, just let his apprehensive gaze do the talking for him.

Dean sighed again, a small smile crooking up one side of his mouth. "Damn. Well I guess I'm glad you got me out of the way of that truck. I'd be Deanburger Helper right now."

Sam had been thinking the same thing, but didn't find it as amusing as Dean did. "We've got to get to Bobby's before something else happens and I mean like now. You know what that means, right Dean?" Sam prompted hesitantly. He hated the thought of dragging his hurt brother out of the hospital so soon, but it wasn't safe to be there. He thought the drugs might be helping to keep whatever was triggering the echoes at bay, but they wouldn't have him on the strong drugs for too much longer and then he would be vulnerable.

"Yeah, means I'm going to be doing my healing in the backseat of my baby. Won't be the first time," Dean responded, already starting to shift in the bed to get up.

Hands firm on his shoulders, Sam push him back down. "We don't have to go yet Dean. We should at least get another round of painkillers in you," he suggested.

"Nope, I want out of here so I can get it out of me," Dean said, eyes meeting Sam's with determination. Sam could still see the exhaustion lingering below all that steeliness and he knew that pain would soon be joining it, but if Dean was ready to leave, nothing was going to stop him. "I don't want to sit here like this and just wait for it to happen again." There was an edge of fear leaking into those firm words and Sam heard it loud and clear.

"Go get the doctor so I can do the AMA drill. Maybe we'll get really lucky and they'll give me some good stuff to take with me. If not, there's gotta be a liquor store somewhere," Dean shrugged.

Sam wanted to argue, every instinct in him told him that pulling Dean out of the hospital could kill him, visions of 'infection, torn stitches, internal bleeding' all running through his head in high definition, but leaving him there could be so much worse. There really was no other choice.

He grabbed the folded pile of Dean's clothes that he had taken out of the Impala earlier when Dean was still out and set them on Dean's bed. "Wait for me and I'll help you," Sam commanded, looking warningly at his brother, seeing images of IV needles flying everywhere, Dean keeling over onto the floor and earning himself a concussion or broken arm to go with the stab wound while he tried to put on his jeans.

"Sammy, I know you want to gaze upon this hot body, who wouldn't, but that's just not happening while I'm awake. Just go get the doctor, I'll be fine," Dean dismissed, already pulling a shirt his way.

Sam recognized a losing battle when he saw one. When Dean was ready to go, that was the end of the discussion. He left the room with a sigh of resignation to seek out the doctor. He could already imagine how that conversation was going to go and it was going to be tough, because he agreed with every one of the reasons that Dean shouldn't be leaving he was sure the doctor was going to bring up, but he was going to ignore every one of them.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean shifted for the thousandth time in the backseat of the Impala, vainly trying to find a more comfortable position that didn't pull on his stitches or make the dull, persistent ache ramp up into cutting, biting, nauseating, never fucking ending agony, but it just didn't exist. The best he could do was an awkward sprawl with his head propped up against the arm rest of the door, one foot resting on the ground to pr otect himself against any abrupt stops or turns, the other leg curled inward on the seat, foot squished uncomfortably against the door. His arms were curled around his middle below the stitches trying to keep some warmth in his shivering body. At least it was better than the front seat, maybe only one percent better, but Dean would take it right now.

Getting out of the hospital had been easier than expected. The doctor had been adamant that Dean leaving was not only insane, but extremely dangerous to his health, but Dean already knew that and wasn't impressed. He knew he was in more trouble staying there. The doctor threw out a lot of awful and painful sounding words, getting more irate as Dean just continued to pull on his clothes. At the end, the doctor lost and Dean was released with pain medication, antibiotics, and a disgusted, but concerned glare from the doctor.

Once the doctor had stormed out, Dean had made a valiant effort to walk out on his own, feeling pretty proud of himself that he was able to get dressed without help, but his legs hadn't been in the mood to cooperate with actual movement. Dean had leaned back against the bed, staring at the ground swirling below him, trying to inhale enough oxygen to shove the floaty sensation of pain medication away, so didn't notice that Sam disappeared briefly, only heard the squeak of wheels on the shiny floor and looked up to see him rolling in a wheelchair. There had followed a silent exchange consisting of death glares and hand motions of escalating rudeness, but when Sam did his "Get in the chair or I'm gonna shoot you" sigh complete with F5 level bitch face, Dean had known he had lost and gingerly sat in the seat, scowling at being overruled. No one had paid them any attention as they made their way out of the hospital to the car.

Sam had argued when Dean slid carefully into the front passenger seat, starting off kind, concerned and helpfully suggesting that it might be better for Dean to stretch out in the back. The battle over the wheelchair had obviously used up what little remained of Sam's patience because that didn't last long. Dean knew it was his own fault, his own stupid stubbornness that turned Sam's calm approach into sarcasm and anger when Dean refused to take what he knew was the smart choice and sit in the back. With a tight lipped, "Fine. You just tell me before you're going to puke from the pain so I can pull over in time," Sam had slammed the door shut, rocking the car on its wheels. Dean glared at him through the windshield for the unnecessary abuse to the car, ready to let loose when Sam got in, when it sunk in. Even through the warm fuzzy goggles the drugs had given him, he could see the worry etched into Sam's face, the lines that suddenly appeared in his normally smooth forehead speaking of internal struggle. Sam was freaking out and Dean wasn't helping matters.

He just didn't want to lay down in the back because that was the out of commission spot. He'd been there before, bleeding, broken, dying, so had Sam, so had Dad, but Dean wasn't any of those things now, at least he wasn't about to admit that he was. He already felt useless and helpless enough, he didn't want to make it worse by being relegated to the liability spot in the car. There was no explaining that to Sam, though, he wouldn't understand, hell Dean didn't even understand it. It was just his own little phobia. He knew Sam was doing all he could to keep it together for both of them and he knew that he wasn't being fair to him by being such a bull headed ass, but Dean simply couldn't help it. When he was hurt, he went into full on wounded animal mode, striking out at everyone and everything so he didn't appear weak and vulnerable. Sam just wanted to help and Dean just wanted to stand up, dust himself off and say everything was fine, pay no attention to the intestines he was holding in with his hands.

So instead of yelling at Sam when he got in the car, he said nothing at all, had just stared at his younger brother's profile with an uncomfortable blend of guilt and defiance. Sam didn't look at him, just started the car and headed out for the long drive to Bobby's. He didn't look at him when Dean kept adjusting his position, trying to ease up the discomfort. He didn't look at him when the drugs started to wear off and Dean's breathing got heavier and more measured while he tried to ride it out, breathe past it. He didn't look when sweat started to break out over Dean's colorless face. He especially didn't look when Dean asked him to pull over the car in a small, urgent voice, simply did as he asked.

But he did come help him out of the car and held him steady while Dean threw up the meager contents of his stomach, one hand pressed solidly against the stitches to keep them from flexing and ripping with Dean's retching. Sam had also handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth when he was finished and helped him back into the car, backseat this time. Even more kindly, he didn't say anything along the lines of "I told you so" or look smug at Dean's distress. Sam had just looked wiped out and scared.

Panting shallow breaths while he'd waited for the pain in his guts to subside, hoping it would sometime soon before he passed out, he'd seen Sam's hand held out in front of him, two white horse pills waiting on his palm. Dean had grabbed them and tossed them into his mouth, following them with a swallow from the water bottle held in front of him just as suddenly.

"Thanks Sammy," he'd breathed out of clenched lips.

At first, Sam hadn't said anything, just stared at Dean with that damned worried, wrinkled forehead and terrified eyes. Then a sad parody of a smile quirked up his lips. "You always have to do everything the hard way, Dean," he had finally said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I'm kind of dumb that way," Dean had agreed, trying to work up a smile in return, but unable to find one at that moment.

After Sam had helped him settle in and checked to see if he needed anything else, he'd resumed his position in the driver's seat and headed back out on the road. Even though his stomach had been completely empty, the nausea didn't go with it, so Dean had done everything he could to remain still and keep his breathing steady. The pills had kicked in after several harrowing minutes and Dean had been able to fall into a restless sleep that didn't least nearly long enough.

So now he was awake, the pills barely took the edge off the fact that he was only a few hours out of surgery, he was freezing and he could see Sam's troubled gaze on him in the rearview he had tilted down to see him better. Good times. Maybe he should have stayed in the hospital another day. Looking away from those sad puppy dog eyes, Dean shifted again, this time in a really bad way, a grunt almost making it out of his clenched lips as a spike of pure agony stabbed through him, feeling a pull from inside that just felt gross and wrong. He stopped his movement immediately, not caring that his back was twisted and starting to protest the position. It could shut the hell up, he had other concerns.

"Dean?" he heard from the front seat. "You need some more pain pills?" Sam asked. Dean could tell Sam was putting a lot of effort into keeping his voice steady and casual, but years of experience told him that Sam was about five seconds away from either bursting into tears or cramming more pain meds down Dean's throat whether he wanted them or not. Maybe even both.

The second he opened his mouth to respond, Dean felt his stomach try to crawl up and escape via his throat, so he clamped his lips shut again, and resumed his deep breathing. He could still feel Sam's eyes on him, so he just nodded. Dean wasn't a fan of pain medication, he didn't like the way it made him feel, but he liked this even less. A clenched hand came into his line of sight and Dean raised his own to grab the pills he knew where held inside, fighting the pain the movement caused. Who knew that raising your arm used so many core muscles?

The pills fell into his hand and Dean shoved them into his mouth without hesitation, not even bothering to take a swig from the water bottle rolling around in the foot well beside him. He forced them down his dry throat into his heaving stomach, trying to make a deal with his churning guts that he would not move for a while if they would just keep the pills down. They must have taken him up on it because the urge to vomit began to fade.

"Jesus, this sucks," Dean gasped out, letting his head fall back against the door again, eyes focused on the roof of the car. He had left the hospital well before the doctors wanted him to many times, but this was a first for taking off so quickly after surgery. The really good stuff they put in the IV to make you completely unaware of what the hell was going on would be really welcome right about now. He was going to try really hard not to do this again. It had been necessary, but he was paying for it.

"I know Dean," Sam said sympathetically. "We can stop if you need to. We're coming up on a town," he offered.

Dean was in enough pain that he actually considered it. A bed would be a lot more comfortable and still than his present location, but he also knew that every minute they delayed getting to Bobby's was another one that Dean had a target on his ass. "No, I'm good."

"Yeah, you're great," Sam said in a huff, but there was no heat to it. He knew as well as Dean did that stopping wasn't really an option, he was just going through the motions. "Just tell me if it gets too bad okay?"

"Sure," Dean responded flatly, knowing he would do no such thing.

"Dean.." Sam started, a warning in his tone. Sam knew he wouldn't do it either.

"Stop worrying Sam, just drive. I'm not dying here, I just hurt and that's nothing I can't handle. I knew what I signed up for when I left the hospital," Dean sighed in resignation. He knew Sam was physically incapable of not worrying, but he was hoping that he could get him to stop jumping in panic every time Dean moved.

Dean's eyes shifted over to meet Sam's in the rearview. "And stop staring at me, it's starting to freak me out," he demanded, the words softened by the smile curving up on side of his mouth.

"All right, I'll make you a deal. You tell me when it's getting bad again and I'll quit looking at you. And you have to promise Dean, no going tough guy and riding it out until you're barfing again or I'll stare at you all the way to Bobby's," Sam threatened, already adjusting the rearview mirror back to its normal position.

"Scout's honor," Dean said wearily in reply. He meant it. He knew Sam would do exactly as he said if he didn't keep to his end and he could do without Sam eyeballing him for the rest of the trip. "So tell me what exactly went down to give me another bellybutton." If he couldn't sleep, move, or drive, then talking was the only thing he had left to give him some distraction from the pain.

Dean saw Sam run a hand through his hair, something it looked like he'd been doing a lot lately judging from the tousled state of his hair. "I was getting gas and you went into the store. I saw you standing at the counter, just staring at the wall. I thought maybe you had gone AWOL again so I started to head inside when I saw you walk over to get coffee. Thought everything was okay, that you had been looking at a TV or something, but then you were gone." Sam stopped there for a moment, drawing Dean's eyes to him. He could only see Sam's profile, but it was enough to see how much the event had shaken him in the muscles twitching in his tight jaw, the eyebrow pulled down tight to his nose.

"When I got inside, I saw that you had been looking at a clock and that's when I knew that it was happening again. The guy behind the counter said you had gone out the back. When I got out there, it was the same thing as last time; you were just standing there, totally gone, just vacant. I was in front of you and I felt something pass through me, through my belly. I was an arm, Dean," Sam voice rose in disbelief. "A fucking arm passing through my guts and it had stabbed you." He broke off then to take a long trembling breath. "And then it was just you and me again, no arm, no death echo. Just you covered in blood, but still not there. The clerk called an ambulance and I followed it to the hospital in the car."

Dean remained silent, letting the words sink into his brain that was rapidly becoming slow and soggy as the additional dose of pills started to work through him. That sounded pretty bad. Whatever that witch had done to him had made him vulnerable to death echoes. He didn't know how, or even why since it was a terribly inefficient way to do kill someone, but that had to be the how. Now to sort out the why, what and the fucking fix it parts.

"If I hadn't been there, or had gotten to you just a little bit later, I don't think they could have saved you," Sam added in a rough whisper, his head swinging around to look at Dean fully for a moment, as if to reassure himself that he was still there and breathing, before going back to the road.

Guilt started to creep back into Dean as he thought about what his brother must have gone through and about the hard time he'd given him since leaving the hospital. Dean didn't remember what had happened, he didn't know if Sam had only had to try to keep him from bleeding out for a few short minutes or an eternity of time waiting for the ambulance. He didn't know how long Sam had to wait to hear if Dean was going to live while his brother was in surgery. He didn't know how frightening it must have been to see his brother attacked by something they didn't know how to stop.

It must have been bad. Trying to picture it all, Dean knew he would have been frantic if the roles had been reversed, so appreciated the restraint Sam had shown in letting Dean make his own dumb decisions. Being reassuring and grateful weren't his strong points, in fact, they were probably the lowest points he had, but Sam had earned both. The slightly loopy feeling that was getting stronger as the minutes passed was probably helping with the urge to comfort his brother, too.

"You did get to me, Sammy, you always do and I'm alive and kicking. Well, not so much with the kicking, but I'm alive. That's all I need little brother, just some breathing and some heart beating and…uh…" He had a train of thought, but it was gone now. Yeah, the drugs were really starting to kick in, even the agony in his stomach was starting to fade around the edges. Awesome. "Just, thanks man," he finished deciding to give up the attempt for more conversation.

"Guess those pills are finally working, huh?" Sam said. Dean's eyes had closed at some point, he wasn't sure when, but he could hear the smile in Sam's voice. His little brother knew him so well. He was a good brother, really was, should probably tell him more often if he wasn't so sure it would just give him a big head.….

Dean was out.

###### 

At the abrupt silence, Sam threw a panicked look over his shoulder to see Dean's form relaxing on the seat, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. He sighed in relief when he saw that his brother was sleeping, the worry in his face smoothing out into something resembling fondness and exasperation. It was about damn time. If he'd had to listen to the gasps and grunts of pain that Dean didn't think he could hear and watch the grimaces of anguish flit across his face for much longer, he was going to pull off for a motel regardless of Dean's opinion on the matter and the danger he was in. He was well aware of his brother's exceptionally high pain threshold, it was a Winchester trait that all three of them had, so he knew Dean was in really bad shape and he couldn't ignore the remorse he felt in shuffling Dean out of the hospital so early, even if the reasons were sound.

The vibration of his phone sounded, and Sam snatched it up from the seat beside him before it could wake Dean. Peeking at the screen before answering, he saw that it was Bobby.

"Bobby, hey!" he greeted.

"Where are you boys?" Bobby asked, his voice brusque and urgent. The sound of that tone set off all Sam's alarms and he could feel the fear start to worm its way back in.

"We're only about three hours out from the hospital, we still have a ways to go. Did you find something?" Sam asked, hope and anxiety warring inside him.

"Yeah, well I found something, but it's nothing good." The hope died a brutal death at those words. "Dean said that one of the witches mentioned a Moros. Best I can tell it's a Greek personification for impending doom, drives people to their deaths. It doesn't cause death, just puts them on the path for however they are fated to die."

Sam tried to reconcile that with what was happening to Dean and wasn't coming up with any conclusions. "Well Dean's being put in situations where he could die, but it's not his fate, right?" If it was his fate, it wouldn't be so unnatural.

"Hell kid, who knows how your brother is fated to die? But I'm with you, this is all too artificial to count as his natural death. I've got some calls out to some contacts to see if anyone can tell me more about the coven and in what fashion they may have been worshipping Moros. With any luck, which I know we're short on, someone will have something useful," Bobby explained.

Sam hit upon a thought. "Maybe that's what the death echoes are for. Since Moros doesn't cause death out of turn, they are recreating what he's already prompted to happen? Might explain all the different causes of death for some of those missing people." It was far fetched, but it was starting to make a little sense, as scary as that was.

Bobby was silent for a moment. "You could be right Sam. Maybe that idol they seemed to be so worried about has something to do with it all. Gives us a place to start, anyway," he finally said. "How's your brother doing?"

Sam lifted up so he could see Dean, pleased that he was still sleeping and didn't appear to be feeling any pain. "Sleeping now, not so good before. I'm intending to keep going until we get to your place, but if it starts getting to be too much again, I may need to pull off for a while." Dean had promised to tell him if the pain was getting beyond his tolerance, but he didn't exactly trust Dean to have the same idea of what was too much as Sam did, so he would make the call if he felt it was necessary. He wasn't going to watch his brother writhe around in agony if he could help it.

"Keep me posted. I'll keep digging, and I should start to hear back from some people soon. Just keep it steady Sam, we're going to get to the bottom of this," Bobby promised, his gruff voice dropping into reassuring tones.

"Thanks Bobby," Sam said, disconnecting the call.

He looked back again at Dean's resting form and sighed, pressing just a bit harder on the gas pedal, the Impala's engine roaring to accommodate his need for additional speed. Count on Dean to piss off a witch coven that basically worshipped death. As if they didn't piss off death enough in their line of work.

"Always the hard way," Sam muttered to himself, eyes gazing out on the road before him, but mind focused on the threat to his brother. They would fix it. They had to.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam grimaced when he heard Dean's deep sleep sounds that were a cross between a soft snore and a deep breath start to hitch and hesitate, meaning that he was coming out of his deep sleep. He peeked over the seat at his brother's pale face, sighing when he saw that the pain lines had returned to Dean's forehead and around his mouth. It had only been four hours, he had really been hoping that Dean would stay under longer, but his brother always fought pain meds, it seemed to be coded into his DNA. It wasn't uncommon to see doctors sweating malpractice suits at the amount of medication they've had to administer to overcome his brother's ability to fight sedation, so he couldn't expect a few Demerol to do any better.

He was also relying on the hope that Dean's medicated assisted sleep would keep any additional death echoes at bay. He didn't relish the thought of having a flash of some random fatal accident end up passing right through him and the car and eradicating Dean. The very thought made his blood run cold through his veins, even as his brain futilely tried to make sense of the logistics of that happening. Since that thought had occurred to him, he'd been driving on hyper aware mode, eyes jerking spastically to every flash of light, every questionable object in the view in front of him, muscles tense to react.

Sam was exhausted, drained physically and emotionally and so scared that he was going to lose his brother. He was terrified they wouldn't make it to Bobby's, that Dean would succumb to his injury or that something else would happen along the way. Despite his promise not to stare at Dean, he couldn't help but look back at him every few seconds to make sure he was still breathing, still there. Barring any further events, they should be at Bobby's in just under twelve hours. On a normal trip, twelve hours was nothing, they'd driven further just to see a ball game, but today, it seemed there were an infinite number of miles stretching ahead of them. He felt that if they could just get to Bobby, this would all be sorted out.

Twelve more hours. Seven hundred and twenty minutes in which anything could go wrong. Sam thought he was tense before. That was a lot of time, a huge window of opportunity for something to get Dean. Something he couldn't fight against.

Sam couldn't get the sight of that ghostly arm passing through him, as it should, yet managing to strike Dean like it was real, which it shouldn't. It was as if somehow Dean was falling into a midway point between the spirit world and the solid world, where ghosts lived, but how could that be happening? Was it something to do with the idol, or was it something else? Maybe one of the witches had been able to put a curse or spell on his brother before they were able to silence them.

Assuming that is what happened, what was the point of it? So the coven worshipped some Greek personification that led people to death. Somehow, they were killing people by making them reenact Moros' work through the death echoes. Did that mean that they put their victims in the spot where a violent death happened, then somehow shifted their physical beings to the same plane as the echo so it was real and was able to harm them? Since it clearly had to be done at the exact same time and place it originally happened, that would take some extremely crackerjack timing and planning.

Or maybe they were bringing the death echoes to the victim?

Feeling like he may have stumbled onto something, Sam applied his full logical brain power to wandering down that path, ears still alert to the sounds Dean was making behind him so he could ply him with more pain meds and antibiotics the second he woke up. It would make more sense for the coven to have some sort of way to cause the death echoes to appear in their place of worship instead of traipsing all over the country to find the actual spots. That would explain why the people were being held in that cave.

His mind settled on the idol that Dean had destroyed. The idol may have had power of its own, or at least power the coven infused it with, and that power may have been released into Dean. Dean was now drawing out death echoes that likely weren't happening without his presence. Sam didn't have proof of that, but the accident in front of the motel had happened years ago, someone over that amount of time would have seen something if it was a naturally occurring echo. It was like Dean was a big receiver for them now, picking up the energy and bringing it to life. Maybe he was the energy source to feed them, creating them.

As a theory, it was out there. Planet Jupiter out there. But if someone had told him Dean would be lying in the backseat after having been stabbed via a death echo, he would have thought that was crazy too, so he was ruling nothing out. There were a lot of holes, a lot of things he didn't understand, but he felt like things were starting to gel. He was nowhere near solving it, but if he was right, at least they were getting closer.

He grabbed his phone to call Bobby and share his musings when Dean groaned from the seat behind him. Sam dropped the phone and turned swiftly to check his brother. Dean was still in his awkward pose on the seat, but his fists were clenched as tightly as his jaw. A flash of green between the slits of his eyes announced that he was indeed awake.

"Hey there man. How you doing?" Sam called back, turning around to focus again on the road. He was already digging into the bag full of pills to extract Dean's next dose of chemical comfort. He was really hoping that a sedated Dean was a 'not death echo vulnerable' Dean.

"Ugh," was all Dean was able to contribute.

"That good, huh?" Sam asked sadly. "Well good news, I've got some more pain meds for you," he said brightly, swinging his arm over the seat to get the pills as close to Dean as possible.

A groan was his response. "Nauseated?" Sam asked in sympathy. He knew his brother's pain responses as well as he knew his own. "Just try, okay? You don't keep them down, we'll wait a bit then try again."

He felt a hand brush against his and he opened his fist to let the pills fall into Dean's hand. "Four?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"Added some antibiotics, Dean. Don't need that getting infected," Sam supplied.

He heard nothing more and glanced back to see Dean contemplating the cruelly large pills laying in his palm with a vicious glare. With a sigh, he pressed them into his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed them down. He followed that up with a sip of water from the bottle beside him on the floor. Then he resumed his position on the seat, his head falling back against the door panel again. Sam couldn't help but notice the slightly green tinge to his brother's pallor.

Dean was mumbling something to himself, lips barely moving. Sam strained to hear and finally caught it. "Stay down, stay down, stay down," he whispered over and over in a heartfelt litany.

"Let me know if I need to pull over," Sam reminded him. There wasn't much of a shoulder on the road, mostly trees and a narrow dirt embankment, but they had seen very few other cars, so Sam was fully prepared to park it in the road if necessary.

Lifting a hand and pointing his fingers in a gun shape, Dean gestured in the affirmative, eyes now closed. Sam knew he was still awake, so wanted to help divert his mind from the pain and nausea as much as possible until the pills kicked in. Dean needed those to stay down; it wasn't worth thinking about what would happen if he couldn't take anything.

"So we're only half a day from Bobby's," he provided, glancing at Dean in the rearview briefly. Dean's eyes were still closed, but his head was turned towards Sam to indicate that he was listening. "And I've been doing some thinking about what's happening and I have some thoughts."

"Course you do, geek boy," Dean said with a tired smile and strained voice.

Sam just continued on. "What if the idol you broke was the seat of their power, something they used to activate death echoes? Maybe it somehow passed onto you."

"That's a shitty inheritance. They couldn't just give me jewelry or some land?" Dean joked, shutting his mouth abruptly afterward. Guess the nausea was still hanging around.

"If that's the case, then it should be as simple as getting that power out of you, killing it, or releasing it. I'm sure Bobby has a million ways to do something like that," Sam assured him. He wasn't exactly as sure of it as he hoped he sounded, but he did have faith that between the three of them, that they would sort it out.

"Hope so," was all Dean said.

"I'm going to give him a call and…Shit!"

Sam was cut off abruptly when he saw a van that was heading towards them in the opposite lane suddenly swerve towards the Impala. For a moment, he thought it was another death echo, that what he had feared was happening, but it was too solid. It was real and it was heading right for them.

"Dean, hang on!" Sam called out, turning the wheel sharply to the left to veer out of the path of the van. Sam was planning to just take up the space the van had left, but the van clearly had other ideas. It turned towards them at the last moment, the passenger side of the bumper and grill plowing into the front passenger side fender of the Impala. Sam jerked sharply to the right from the impact, smashing back into the driver's side window as the force threw him the other way. He managed to get an arm up to shield his head from the impact, but his elbow went through the window, shattering the glass around him, agony flaring up through his arm all the way to his neck.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam called in worry, struggling to keep the ailing car under control. He couldn't see much of his brother in the rear view, only a tangle of legs. Dean was in no condition to brace himself against an accident and Sam could only imagine what being flung about the backseat had to have felt like. "Dean!" he shouted again when he got no response.

The Impala skidded across the road from the momentum of the van. The car ended up on the opposite side of the road, hood down in the shallow ditch, backend still sticking out in the road. The van was firmly planted at an angle, nose wedged into the spot of impact. The engines of both vehicles were still running, but the van was going to need to move before Sam could. After he tore a strip off the careless driver that caused the accident.

Dean first.

Sam put the car into park and swung around to see how Dean had fared. Dean was lying face first in the footwell, his legs still up on the seat, trembling arms trying to push him back up, face contorted with the effort and pain. Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's shoulders to help push him back up and Dean fell back onto the seat with an agonized grunt.

"What the hell, Sam?" he moaned, hands hovering around his middle as if to attend to the pain, but knowing he shouldn't touch it.

"Someone hit us Dean. Are you okay?" Sam asked, looking out the window to see that a man had gotten out of the van. He hadn't moved much, was merely standing by the open door of the van and staring at the car.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, but what about my Baby? She okay?" Dean asked urgently, his breath coming in short pants.

Sam didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge the fact that his brother was more worried about the car than his own condition, his eyes were still on the driver of the van. He didn't look like someone who had just caused an accident, frightened and panicked. He had a look of grim resolve. That's when Sam knew. This was no accident. This was intentional, and while he didn't know why, he had to expect the worse and act accordingly.

He turned back to his brother, already pulling his gun out of his waistband. Dean's gun was in his duffel which was in the trunk. Sam knew he should have given it to him, but he was expecting Dean to sleep and it wasn't like a gun was useful against their latest problem.

"Dean, listen to me." His brother caught onto the hard urgency in his voice immediately and focused in on Sam as much as he could. "Something isn't right here. Keep your head down, okay?"

"What is it?" Dean asked, suddenly alert and aware, straining to raise himself up in the seat so he could look outside.

"Stay down!" Sam barked out sharply, then turned and exited the car.

Looking over the roof of the Impala, he saw that there were now three men, all standing and waiting. Sam looked over each one of them, and noted their relaxed stances, their determined gazes. He wasn't sure what they wanted, but it was nothing good.

"Nice bit of driving there," Sam called out. He was trying to sort out how he could work his way around to the passenger side without it being too obvious. He didn't like leaving such easy access to Dean unguarded. He had a thought to treat this like an accident to let them think he wasn't onto them, but they weren't even trying to act like this wasn't something sinister and heading to nothing good.

Sam started to edge around the back of the car, his gun tight to his thigh so it wouldn't be immediately seen. The three men's heads turned, their eyes following him. The coordination of their movements was unsettling to say the least. They looked vaguely alike, one was clearly in his fifties, the other two maybe thirties, but all appeared to be strong and fit.

"We've come for our vessel," the older man, the driver, said simply.

Sam's stomach dropped into his feet. He'd been so consumed with worry over another death echo, he hadn't considered that the coven itself might come for Dean, he thought they had killed the coven when they took out the two witches in the cave. They hadn't returned to check. They really should have.

The gun in his hand was aimed in an instant. The three men before him gave no reaction. "I'll assume you're talking about my brother. Yeah, that's not going to happen," Sam responded firmly.

The man who had spoken before smiled, chilling in its cruelty. "Yes. It is."

With those words, the man flung out his hands and Sam flew back into the back fender of the car, arms flying wide. He felt a tug on his gun and that too went flinging away. A sharp, piercing pain stabbed through his head, dropping him to his knees as the world exploded in agony. He could hear Dean calling to him, but it was muffled and sounded too far away. Oh God Dean, he was alone, unarmed, injured and doped up on pain meds. He had a lot of faith in his brother's abilities to fight against brutal odds, but that was a really stacked deck for the house.

Sam tried to open his eyes, but he shouted out in agony as the bright light outside cut through his brain like a spike and he just couldn't do it. It was like a hundred migraines all at once. He was helpless to react, to move and he needed to. He was all that stood between them and his brother. It was just a spell, he just had to fight it. With that thought, Sam staggered to his feet, both hands pressed firmly against the car to help steady him. He forced his eyes open, gritting his teeth as the pain immediately went up a few notches, tears welling uncontrollably and pouring down his face.

The first thing he saw was that the back passenger door was open. Lurching away from the car, every step, every movement sending fresh waves of stomach churning pain through him, he spied the two younger men holding a struggling Dean by the arms, dragging him toward the back of the van where the older man was holding the door open. Sam tugged his knife out of its sheath and moved as quickly as he could towards them. They weren't taking his brother, he would die first.

Dean turned sharply in his captors' hold to look in his direction and Sam could read the relief the flooded Dean's features when he saw Sam up and moving. Dean's face hardened and he nodded slightly at Sam. The message was clear. They both hurt, they were both worn out beyond belief, but they couldn't let them take him or it was over.

Dean let his legs drop out from under him like he had passed out. The men stopped to readjust their hold when Dean came back to life in a flurry of movement, violently slamming the top of his head into underside of one man's chin. As that man went flying back, his grip on Dean faltering, Sam took that moment to move up beside the other one and shove his knife in between his ribs. Sam pulled the dying man away from him brother and took up his position at Dean's side. He smiled briefly at Dean's exhausted face, hope that they could actually get out of this welling up inside him.

It was short lived.

Sam was once again airborne, slamming into the side of the van, something in his back, ribs most likely giving way, the back of his head connecting with the unforgiving metal a moment later.

###### 

He must have lost consciousness because when he was aware again, he saw that he was in the van. He thought his head hurt before, now it was an effort to just breathe without it hurting. His vision was blurry, his thoughts molasses slow; concussion. Probably a pretty good one. Blearily, he was able to make out Dean across from him, struggling with the man he'd upper cut with his head. Sam wanted to help, attempted to will his leaden limbs into movement, but something in his brain had checked out. He did see a dark wetness spreading across Dean's torso; torn stitches. The alarm that sent through him help to clear some of the fog, and he worked to force himself into movement, shoving down the nausea so he could help Dean.

The van rocked suddenly, and Sam felt movement in the vibration of the metal under him. He couldn't see into the cabin of the van due to a divider, but it was clear they were taking off and headed God only knew where. They were running out of time. Coiling up every bit of energy he had in him, which wasn't much at this point, Sam lunged at the man grappling with his weakening brother, sending him crashing into the side of the van. Dean was moving too, towards the doors, shoving them open.

"Sam, c'mon!" Dean shouted.

Lifting up off the struggling man, Sam shot to the back of the van, looking down in trepidation as the asphalt started to move faster and faster below them. The van probably wasn't going as fast as it appeared, but it definitely looked like they would have some additional injuries to attend to and they really didn't need any more.

"Dean.." he started, shaking his head as images of what could happen filled his mind.

"Sam, we need to go! So we'll lose some skin, better than letting these assholes kill us with mojo! Now tuck and roll, Sammy!" Dean countered, his breathing heavy and labored. Dean was clearly operating on his last vestiges of go juice.

Sam nodded and prepared to jump when two arms snaked around Dean from behind, jerking him backwards. Sam cursed bitterly that these damn guys just wouldn't stay down and moved to intercept, feeling the van move faster and faster, knowing their window to jump and not die was rapidly disappearing. One look in Dean's eyes and he could see that his older brother knew it too. It was there in the various flashes of emotion flying over Dean's normally stoic face; fear, calculation, resignation, apology. They were cornered and that was desperate measure time. Sam figured out what Dean was going to do the second Dean decided to do it and had no time to stop it.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered, right before his feet shot out and caught Sam in the gut, sending him flying out of the van.

Sam instinctively tucked himself into a ball, it was hardly the first time he'd gone flying out of a car thanks to John Winchester and his "What If" lessons, but he couldn't imagine that hitting the road in any other position would have hurt more than it did right now, so not sure the position helped. The impact sent all air rushing out of him, his body blooming with pain and hurt and holy motherfuckingshit that's awful as he rolled along the asphalt, coming to a dizzying stop lying face up. Trees and sky swirled around him, starting to darken on the edges.

He couldn't lose consciousness. Dean had risked a lot to get Sam free, he had to get to the car and get on their tail. If they decided to come back after him, all the better, he could get to the car and arm up. Sam rolled to his stomach, feeling whatever was in his guts trying to crawl out. His eyes shot up, seeking out the van. It was stopped a few hundred feet up and Sam told all the various sharp aches and pains to fuck off as he rose to his feet, intending to run after it. He could see Dean inside, still fighting, but his eyes were on Sam. Then Dean went limp and was pulled further into van, the darkness swallowing his brother whole. The last thing his devastated eyes saw before the van roared away was an arm reaching out and pulling the door shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam could only watch helplessly as the van's distance grew further away from him, his well trained mind still having the presence of thought to capture the license plate information almost absently. Running after it was out of the question. Not only did he have no chance of catching it, he was putting everything he had into fighting the encroaching darkness that had taken him by the hand and was forcefully leading him to unconsciousness. Sweet unconsciousness where there was no skin peeling pain, no twisting vortex in his stomach, no soul tearing guilt and panic that he had failed to save his brother. Oh God Dean…where they hell were they taking him?

Sam didn't even notice that his forehead was pressed into the road, eyes barely open until a particularly sharp rock started to press into his eyelid. His head jerked back, a huge mistake as the pounding in his skull became a full on drum core performance. Burning bile flooded into the back of his throat and he breathed deeply through his nose to try and keep it from going any higher. He lost that fight. He moved clumsily to his hands and knees just in time to release it on the road. Sam hadn't eaten anything since a hastily downed trail bar from the hospital vending machine and he was grateful for that now. Vomiting with a concussion was just insult to injury. It was a cruel joke that those two things came together. The fruitless heaving produced very little of anything, just managed to take the excruciating agony in his head from a 10 to a 20 on the scale and remind him that he had bruised, possibly cracked, ribs and that he'd been kicked out of a moving vehicle.

Doing great.

Wanting nothing more than to roll over and take a breather in the land of nothing for a few minutes, Sam pried his wet eyes open with sheer will. He knew time was running short and that he didn't have the luxury of succumbing to his injuries, not even for a moment. Dean was counting on him, he had made sure Sam got away with what was probably the very last of his strength and he wasn't going to let him down. He spied the Impala about five hundred feet away, surprised that it was that close. It felt like they had been in the van forever, but it hadn't even been half a mile. Closer than he expected, but it still felt like a hundred miles.

Now he just had to get up. Easier said than done, but hey, he was half way there, right?

Taking in as deep a breath as possible without aggravating his ribs, Sam started the arduous task of standing. The elbow that had gone through the window screeched in protest when he put his weight on it to push up off the ground, but he knew that was just a bruise at worse, so it dropped off the concern list. He made it half way before the queasiness roared back into full on dry heaving in the space of seconds. Sam planted his hands on his knees to brace himself, once again just managing to hurt himself more than actually dispel anything. With a grimace and a groan, he pulled up, finally in a position that could be called standing if someone were being very kind. Swaying in place for a moment, trying to pull himself together, he locked eyes on the car. It wouldn't stay still and kept becoming three Impalas, but he knew the general vicinity.

Staggering forward, Sam started to the black car, concentrating on breathing in and out smoothly and evenly in an effort to push down hammering agony in his head. There was pain everywhere, but it was worse there. Whatever that witch had done to him had passed, that had been a sensation beyond pain he had never before experienced and hoped he never would again, but slamming up against the van had taken up the slack. He stumbled, terrified that he was going to fall and not be able to get back up again, but was able to stay upright after some awkward shifting of his weight. He resumed his weaving path to the car, staring at it like it was a beacon in the desert, his stumbling steps slowly bring him closer.

The engine was still idling, the deep rich sound seeming to encourage him onward. All he had to do was make it there, check to be sure that the accident hadn't disabled the car in some way and put the pedal to the floor to catch up with Dean's abductors. Oh, and stay conscious, not drive into a tree from the dizziness, or throw up in Dean's car. Those were pretty important, Dean was already going to be worrying himself to death thinking about what had been done to his baby.

To death. Sam shuddered as the thought reminded him of the fragility of his brother's health. He was already so weakened and damaged, the fighting he had done probably set him back considerably. His brother had torn at the very least his external stitches, he had been bleeding through his shirt. Would the people that took him care? Would they help him? He wasn't under the impression that they were good Samaritans by any stretch, but they had called him their "vessel". They had tried not to hurt him, just to keep him restrained. Sam could only hope that they would want him to stay alive to suit whatever plan they had for him. Sam prayed that was the situation so it would allow him time to get to his brother. Dean wouldn't last long without help.

Finally, Sam's hands closed over the smooth shining surface of the car's trunk and he breathed out a sigh of relief. He had made it to the car, that was the best thing that had happened all day. A few more shuffling steps aided by a shaking hand remaining on the car and Sam's elation turned back into soured bitterness. The front passenger side tire was flat, the wheel well pushed back into the tire space.

"Dammit," Sam muttered, falling back against the car in defeat. He cradled his aching head in his hands for a brief moment, then let them fall back his sides, his head dropping back in a tired movement. It was just against the laws of the universe that the Winchesters should ever catch a damn break.

He could deal with the tire easily enough, but pulling the metal out of the way was going to take some work. The plan he'd had of streaking after Dean with the Impala roaring out her fury dashed away with the image of the bent and twisted mess.

Sam sighed and pulled open the passenger door, deciding he just didn't have the energy to spare walking around to the driver's side. He was so tired, all his limbs trembling with the need to rest and heal. He sat on the seat with a groan as his body compressed, his head dropping back onto the seat, eyes drooping with pain and exhaustion. Bobby. Had to call Bobby.

His hand fumbled at his side, searching for the phone. He couldn't be bothered to look for it, his current position was slightly less painful than all the other ones he had tried, so he wasn't willing to move just yet. His eyes were having trouble focusing anyway. He bumped against the cold plastic and closed his fingers around it, bringing it up to his face. Pressing the button to light it up, he squinted, trying to get his fuzzy vision to sharpen so the blobs on the screen would become letter and numbers and stop jumping around. Irrationally, he wanted to yell at it to get it to cooperate, but it wouldn't help. Might relieve a bit of frustration, but it would probably just hurt something.

Finally able to get Bobby's number pulled up, Sam pressed the call button and put it on speaker, letting it drop to his lap. He reached over and turned off the car, grunting at the stretch of his sore arm.

"Sam?" Bobby's tinny voice came over the pitiful speaker.

"Yeah, Bobby. Look, things kind of went…bad," Sam muttered, eyes shutting to block out some of the light streaming into his eyes like lasers. It was starting to feel really good sitting here, not moving, his body sinking into the seat.

"Define 'bad'," Bobby's demanded.

"The witches came for us, or at least one of them was a witch. Forced us off the road, took Dean. Almost took me too, but Dean got me out," Sam said, picking the most important facts.

"Balls!" Bobby ground out, then there was silence. Sam could hear Bobby breathing and it wasn't calm breathing. "You sound like death, what's going on with you?" he finally asked.

Bobby was always so observant, even over the phone. "Got a bit rattled. Witch flung me around, cracked my head a bit. Oh, and Dean kicked me out of a moving vehicle," Sam tossed in as an afterthought.

"What?" Bobby squawked.

"It was both of us or one of us. Dean's always going to choose the option that puts me out of harm's way. Though this time, that was a pretty fine line," Sam explained. "It was a Pennsylvania plate and they were heading in the direction we just came from. Think they might be going back to the cavern?"

"If we're lucky. That'd be my guess, anyway," Bobby said. "You mobile?"

"Not so much. Car is a bit messed up," Sam said, voice falling into a breathy moan as he shifted, something in his rib cage shifting uncomfortably with him. Maybe some of those cracked ribs were actually broken ribs.

"Yeah, sounds like you're pretty messed up too. All right, kid, I'm going to head out your way. I'll bring the truck so we can pull the car. Where are you?" Bobby asked.

Sam had to think a moment. "Just outside South Bend, Indiana," he answered, finally remembering the highway exit signs they had passed.

"Okay, call yourself a tow truck and get the car taken somewhere close and get yourself holed up in a motel. I'll be there in ten hours," Bobby promised.

Sam shook his head, belatedly remembering that Bobby wasn't there to see it. "I can't leave Dean alone with those people for ten hours!" he cried out in panic, eyes scrunching up as the ache in his head flared up in response. "I'm going to get a rental car and get back to that place.."

"Sam, you listen to me. You're slurring your words, son, and you're breathing like you only got one lung and it ain't working so good. That tells me you got a concussion at the very least and some rib trouble. You sound like you're about to drop. You need to rest and heal up so you're ready to go in after Dean. If they are going back where this all started, then we have some time. I'll push it as fast as I can to try and make it eight hours, but you got to stop and recharge, all right?" Bobby insisted.

"But what if they aren't going back there, Bobby? That's just a guess, what if we're wrong?" Sam asked in a small voice. The thought of sitting on his ass while Dean was in danger was unthinkable, even if Bobby did have good points.

A sigh passed over the line. "Witches are big on ritual and ceremony, they're gonna want to get all dressed up like a bunch of girls on Halloween and do whatever it is they are planning to do in some grand event. If they just wanted him dead, they would have just killed him. They want something from him, so we have time Sam." Bobby's tone went from exasperated and impatient, to steady and firm.

Sam believed him, but he also knew Dean wouldn't wait to look for him, he would have fixed the car with his teeth if he'd had to and been on the road looking for him right now. Of course, he would likely pass out from his injuries, exhaustion or a fun combination of both and wrap himself around a tree. Which was probably exactly what Sam would do if he tried to drive right now. Practicality won over panic and desperation, but only because he did think Bobby was right and that there was time.

"All right, Bobby, I'll do all that." He heard a "thank God one of the Winchesters has some damn sense" muttered over the line. Sam couldn't help but smile a bit. "I'll call you back with the motel I'm in. And Bobby?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Make it seven hours."

###### 

The first thing Dean became aware of was the cold. It seemed ever since he'd gotten out of the surgery he'd been freezing, all his heat seeming to have escaped from the new hole in his stomach. It had just started in his fingers and toes, now it was all through him, pervasive in its domination of all his limbs and extremities. Pulling his jacket around him tighter, he was about to ask Sam to turn up the heat when he remembered that Sam wasn't there. Then he remembered why Sam wasn't there.

His eyes flew open, only darkness greeting him. At first he thought he was blindfolded, but a quick swipe of his fingers revealed that it was simply dark wherever he was. Reaching out a hand, he met the frozen chill of metal bars. That movement pulled on the muscles of his stomach and he was surprised that he couldn't really feel any pain at the moment, just a dull ache and uncomfortable stretch. He ran a gentle hand over the area, finding that his shirt was crusty and damp with drying blood. Reaching under the cloth, he carefully pulled it away from where it had dried to his wound. A careful rub of his fingers told him that any stitches that had pulled had been replaced.

They had patched him up. They had given him something for pain. So that was odd and probably meant that they just wanted him alive for something worse. Good times.

At least he had gotten Sam free of them. He didn't exactly like the method he'd used, but he'd rather have Sam suffer some more cuts, bruises and broken bones than to be stuck in here with these freaks. Dean figured he had some value to them. Based on how much they had tossed him around, Sam did not. With Sam out there, he would be able to get to Bobby and hopefully they would be able to save his ass before anything else happened. If not, at least Sam would be okay.

Dean heard shuffling from the area to his left and he sat up a bit straighter, trying to make out any shape in the darkness. He finally saw a small circle of light heading his way and as it illuminated the area around it, he recognized where he was. He was back in the cavern, in those cages. He knew he should have come back to do a better check to be sure they had gotten all the witches, but with the whole death echo thing, his mind was kind of elsewhere. He would beat himself up over it later, he just needed to concentrate on getting out of this shit hole.

The light grew stronger and he was able to see a robed figure holding a lantern approaching him. The head was bent down, so he couldn't see a face. It stopped in front of the cage and Dean was able to fully make out his surroundings. All the other cages were empty, the doors hanging slightly ajar. At least they hadn't had the time to start taking people again. A quick view down at his own body verified that he was unharmed except for the stomach wound he'd already had.

"It's good to see you awake, vessel," the figure before him spoke, head finally rising. Dean saw that it was the driver of the van, the one that had hurt Sam.

"Can't disagree with that, though I've definitely woken up in better places," Dean replied calmly.

He was trying to gauge how close the man was to the bars and if Dean would be able to grab him and connect his face with them before the witch could stop him. He wished he'd had enough time to test out his reflexes. He didn't feel loopy or swimmy from any kind of pain medicine, but until he really got moving, it was hard to tell. He knew the man was powerful, he had tossed Sam around with just a wave of his hand, Dean knew he would have to be fast and on target to take advantage of any opening, but he was forced to acknowledge that fast and on target might be a bit out of his reach at the moment. He may have to go with smart and sneaky. Not his usual approach, but he could pull it out when he needed to.

"I know the accommodation isn't the best, but you are a bit more…shall we say, capable than most? Caution was necessary as we do not wish to cause you more harm," the man said, equally calm.

Dean just snorted disdainfully in response. Something they had done to him had almost gotten him killed, but they didn't want to cause him harm. Whatever. "So what's the plan for me and what's with all this 'vessel' crap?" he asked, shifting a leg under him casually. There was a small sensation of the world swirling around him, but it passed quickly. Encouraged, Dean got to his feet, pleased that there was no flash of pain or discomfort beyond what he already felt. He might be tearing something up inside and he couldn't feel it, but if they were dumb enough to give him pain meds, then he would take advantage of the lack of feeling. He could get patched up again later. The man standing in front of him did not react to his movement.

The man smiled benevolently. "As you have destroyed our vessel, you will take its place," he answered simply.

Dean had to let that one sink in for just a moment. He didn't mean…"You mean like, figuratively? You know, uh…," Dean ran out of words. He wasn't sure what he was trying to say, just knew that the man couldn't mean what he thought he meant.

"No, I mean it quite literally. You will become the vessel."

"You mean that damn rock was a person?" Dean ground out in horrified disgust. Fucking witches! He thought back on it and he supposed it could have seemed somewhat human shaped if that person was squished down and melded together. That sounded really unpleasant and Dean was really not interested in having that happen to him.

"It was and it was very old. It was one of the most powerful members of our coven," the man explained.

"You turned one of your own members into that thing? Did he piss off the rest of the troop, or something?" Dean asked, panic starting to edge up under the anger flowing through him. Having them try to kill him was one thing. Turning him into a rock, completely another. He was taking that personally. He was edging ever so slightly closer as they spoke, hoping that it wasn't being noticed.

"It was a great honor, the closest he could be to Moros for all of eternity, observing his work," the man said.

That stopped Dean's movement. "You mean he was alive in there?" he whispered, voice hoarse with growing dread. It was starting to get very real what they meant to do with him and he so did not want to end up as a stone, unable to move, unable to do anything. He didn't even like sitting still for more than a few minutes. He would make them kill him first if he couldn't find a way out. If that would even work.

"More or less. It is Moros' gift for the vessel's sacrifice, to be with him and worship his work forever," he said with a happy smile.

Dean's lips were doing exactly the opposite, drawing more and more into a twisted frown. "So why would you waste this….gift," he choked out in repugnance, "on a non believer like me?"

The man sighed then, the smile fading away. Dean smirked, one point for him, but he wasn't exactly sure how he scored it. "Since you were there when it was destroyed, the power was released into you. There is no way to remove it, or transfer it to another vessel, so we must make do. It is not an ideal situation, of course, but you will not be the first non believer we have used. If you do not prove to be an adequate vessel, you will be destroyed and another will be chosen."

Dean put on his most wicked smile. "You guys are really screwed. I drink constantly, I cuss every other word, I fornicate at every opportunity, I lie more often than I tell the truth, and I pretty much never shut up. Your Moros isn't going to be happy with me as a roommate, I guarantee it." Dean had resumed his careful creeping towards the front of the cage, the man almost within reach.

The smile was back and, this time, there wasn't anything nice about it. "You seem to be under the impression you'll have any presence. You won't. You will see, hear, but that is all. Besides, we aren't making you a vessel for God. Moros is not interested in the morality that humans have imposed upon themselves. Moros is more than neutral, Moros just is. This is truly a great honor for one such as yourself," the man clarified.

Yeah, Dean wasn't liking this at all. What the witch was describing filled him with a terror he had rarely known. He was prepared to die, he wasn't dumb enough to think he was going to make it to old age, but to be stuck as a stone for all eternity, watching people die in horrific ways? No. Not going to happen.

"Well maybe that sounds real fun to you, but I don't think that's much of a prize," Dean tossed out. Just a few more inches and would be able to touch the man, bust his face on the bars.

"You will be immortal. Who wouldn't want that?" the man insisted.

"As a stone in a dark cave? Pass!" Dean spat out roughly.

"You will hold Moros' power inside you," he tried again.

"I don't swing that way, ass hat," Dean grimaced.

The witch shook his head, smiling indulgently at him. "Well your opinion doesn't really matter. It will be done whether you agree or not."

"How?" Dean asked. Keep him talking, keep him thinking on turning Dean into a blobby form, so he wasn't paying any attention on how close he was getting. The man seemed more than willing to spill his guts, might as well take advantage.

"If not for the interference of your tall friend, it would have already been done. We will invoke the power within you to draw in a vision of the death of another and you shall die in the same fashion, completing the transformation. Your soul will be the sacrifice to Moros to bind the power within you and all will be well again," the witch explained.

"So you're saying a death echo has to kill me?" Dean asked, trying to make some sense of what he was hearing.

The man's head tilted in confusion. "I've not heard that term, but I think you have the gist. We celebrate Moros' work, the planning and craftsmanship that goes into making every death happen, especially the violent ones, so that is how the vessel must be born, how the sacrifice must be made."

"So you watch his greatest hits, is that it? You just unleash whatever power it is that brings on the echoes and put some poor son of a bitch in front of it to die?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Yes, that is correct," the man confirmed.

Dean just stared at him in abhorrence. "You guys are seriously messed up. Tell me, how does causing death celebrate your Moros, huh? Seems like you're perverting what he does by setting it all up. Your sacrifice is getting hit by someone else's death, not their own."

The man seemed unruffled by Dean's logic. "It pleases him to relive his own works, much like a painter observing again a painting he has already sold or an author reading a book he wrote that he hasn't read in a very long time. At the time of sacrifice, Moros can select from the millions of deaths that happened at that very time to see again, to show us, so we can appreciate it. In turn, he gives us power."

"So what has been happening to me? Why am I seeing people's deaths? How did I get hurt by it?" Dean asked. He knew he should just get on with his escape attempt, but he wanted to know so he could understand what he might have to live with if he got out of there. They said only death could get the power or whatever the hell it was out of him and he wasn't signing up for that.

"The vessel itself is a battery of sorts for a very specific function. It has the power to bring the memories of death to life. We normally drug our sacrifices with a very special herbal mixture and a spell to put them in a state between life and death so they can experience the memory in the flesh. Because you are the vessel, that means when the spell was placed to bind the power to you, a spell was put upon you to place you in the same state in the presence of a memory," the man expounded.

Dean remembered the witch he had killed mumbling something. He silently kicked himself. "Guess I should have shut up Flames a bit sooner," he mumbled.

The man's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you are referencing our Keeper, the one who watched over the stone and the sacrifices. That was the only magic he knew and he died doing his duty. He does not deserve your disrespect," he bit out, something a lot more lively coming into his even tone.

Seeing that he had struck a nerve, Dean decided to push it. A pissed off witch might just mean a careless witch. "I don't give a rat's ass about what his job was, I just wish I'd put a bullet in his head after I'd lit him on fire. And he hit like a girl, by the way, you guys really should have taught him a few more spells," he suggested with a smirk.

The man's mouth tightened and Dean made his move, know it was probably a worthless effort, but it wasn't in his blood to not even try. He leaped at the bars, ignoring the fact that they suddenly looked as if they were bending thanks to whatever they had given, his hand reaching out to grasp the man's forearm. He had just made contact when he was tossed against the back wall, the hazy happy no pain place he'd been living in since waking up breaking up a bit, sharp pain streaking up his back and torso. Dean fell down to all fours, trying to regain his breath.

Well that had been a fail, but a valiant effort. He was giving it a generous five.

"That was foolish!" the witch shouted. Dean lifted his head up, glaring at the man, but noted with some satisfaction that he had stepped back from the cage. "I said we do not want to hurt you and I meant it, but that doesn't mean we won't. We just need to keep you from dying, that's all. Keep that in mind."

With those words, the witch turned and stormed out. Dean sat back against the wall with a sigh, a hand drifting absently over his stitches, noting they were still intact. "That went well," he whispered. Something the witch said was sitting with him. So they didn't want him to die before they killed him. That had to mean something, maybe something he could use against them.

Since he had nothing else to do in the pitch darkness, Dean continued to chew on those words, starting to plan. He believed Sammy and Bobby were coming, but it wouldn't hurt to have a Plan B. Dean Winchester was not going out as a stupid idol.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam was jolted into consciousness by fierce pounding, a deep, yet strangely hollow noise that he first thought was just the resurgence of the pain bouncing around in his skull like a ping pong ball on crack, but some semblance of intelligence finally wove its way into his fuzzy brain and identified it as someone knocking on the door. He turned to look at the clock beside the bed and immediately regretted the action as it felt like his brain was going to slide out his nose and take his spine with it. He squeezed his eyes shut and ceased his movement immediately, but not before he saw the time. It had been six hours since he'd collapsed on the bed of his cheap as dirt motel room, which meant that Bobby had finally arrived. He wasn't quite sure how he managed to sleep that long since he thought he had set his phone alarm, but he obviously didn't.

The thought that he was going to finally get to make some headway in getting to Dean was enough to help him shove the assorted pains in his body aside like a blackout curtain over a window. Swinging his legs over to the side of the bed, he pulled himself up with a heartfelt groan. He had really been hoping that a few hours of sleep would help, even if it was risky with what was no question a concussion. He was well versed in injuries and knew that the deeper muscle and joint aches would be worse after a bit of time, but he thought at least his head wouldn't still feel like it was being crushed in a vise that made every movement and thought a battle to be won. So much for that. He did note with some relief that the nausea wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before. Of course he hadn't really moved yet, but he was going for optimistic. Anything would be an improvement over how he felt just before he passed out on the bed, it had taken all he had just to get from the side of the road to the motel.

He had managed to get a tow truck out to him fairly quickly, they hadn't made it too far past town before being run off the road. The driver was insistent on calling an ambulance when he saw Sam, or at the very least dropping him in at a hospital, but Sam declined firmly enough that driver hadn't put up any additional argument, simply hooked the Impala up to his rig, mumbling about how crazy people were after they got their heads rattled. The twenty minute ride to the nearest motel was spent in a hazy mix of painful darkness and stomach churning flashes of trees going by, but Sam was able to stay conscious and climb out of the truck under his own steam. The driver gave him a card that had the address of where the Impala would be and Sam tucked it carefully into his back pocket for safekeeping.

Just checking into the motel had been a trial. He had alternated between nearly vomiting all over the front desk and keeling over unconscious on the cheap linoleum floor. He was pretty sure the office manager was about to call the ambulance before he managed to get it together enough to complete the transaction without additional issue. Once inside the room, he had gone to the bathroom to take a quick shower to get a proactive start on loosening up his battered muscles and couldn't help but catch sight of his image in the mirror and suddenly understood the concern of the driver and the motel manager.

Below the hair that did indeed look like he had been kicked out of moving vehicle, his face was scraped and dirty, a few deeper cuts leaving trails of dried blood down his cheeks and neck. While trying to focus and stay conscious in the tow truck, he had taken stock at the state of his hands, chest and every other bit of exposed skin that had suffered from the road abrasion, so wasn't too surprised that his face didn't look any different. He had let out a dark chuckle when he remembered joking with Dean about a death echo causing him to fall out of the car and get some serious road rash. Oh sweet irony that it happened to Sam only a few hours later. Irony was an asshole.

The one thing he hadn't anticipated was the amount of blood in various states of wetness coating the back of his collar and left side of his shoulder. He hadn't realized that anything had actually split open on his head and it had never occurred to him to touch it, it wasn't his own injuries he was concerned with, it was watching the van speed away with his brother, putting miles and miles between them. He had touched careful fingers to his scalp gingerly, immediately seeking out the main source of the pain and felt a cut a couple of inches long. Sam wasn't too worried about it, scalp wounds were notorious for bleeding and this one was already mostly dry, so the worst was passed. Probably didn't even need stitches. It was the inside he was worried about.

The shower had helped to clear his head a bit and he sat on the closed toilet to make his decision on seeking out medical care. Some painful examination in the shower had revealed that he had one broken rib and two that were cracked. That he could deal with, he would have Bobby wrap them when he got there. Yes, his head hurt, well hurt was maybe an understatement, and based on the nausea, dizziness and fuzziness in his sight and thinking, he definitely had a concussion. He didn't think it was so bad that it would require an actual hospital stay, which meant that he didn't even need to go. He'd kept going with worse before, he just usually had Dean to watch over him and make sure that he didn't go too far. Getting an MRI and some pain meds wasn't worth the additional time it would take to get to Dean. So he had decided to sleep instead, which could have been a huge mistake since he clearly forgot to set his phone to wake him up every hour.

It was a seriously lucky break that he woke up at all. He must have been more out of it than he thought before he passed out.

With one hand on the bed, Sam rose to his feet, the pressure in his head threatening to split his skull apart at the seams before it adjusted and settled. He made his way to the door, wincing as the knocking sounded again.

"Sam?" Bobby called, his agitated voice muffled by the door.

Gripping the knob and flicking the lock open, Sam pulled the door open, immediately cringing back as sunlight flooded into his face. With partially open watering eyes, Bobby's form was just a vague outline.

"Jesus boy, you look like ten pounds of shit," Bobby commented, stepping into the room. He took the door from Sam's hands and shut it softly in consideration of Sam's obvious discomfort.

"That's good, because I feel like twenty pounds of shit," Sam rejoined.

He was able to see Bobby clearly now and he could see the concern wrinkling his brow as he looked up at Sam. "Really Bobby, I'm okay. Just a concussion and some sore ribs, nothing I haven't dealt with before." Before Bobby could comment, Sam was pulling the business card out of his pocket, and handing it to him. Bobby looked at it in confusion, understanding lighting up over his face when he saw what it was. "I want to make sure I don't lose it."

Sam started to gather up his things, there wasn't much since he didn't bother to unpack, when Bobby stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. "Hold on just a second, Sam, and let me take a look at you," he suggested. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Pulling away, Sam shook his head, then bit back the whimper that threatened to pass his lips as his head kicked out a protest at the movement. "No Bobby, we need to go. We've left Dean alone with them long enough, they could have done anything to him by now. There's nothing so wrong with me that I can't manage to sit in a car, so let's get going," Sam said firmly. He knew it had been the right call to wait for Bobby, he knew that he wouldn't have made it and then it would have taken even longer to get to his brother, but if something had happened to Dean because he didn't start after him right away, he wasn't ever going to be able to forgive himself.

Bobby must have seen it, because he just sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "All right, but you have to promise me that you'll tell me if it gets any worse. Concussions ain't something you mess with, especially with as many knocks to the head as you've taken," Bobby warned.

"Deal," Sam said with a grateful smile. He really wasn't up to an argument and while he knew Bobby didn't like it, the older man understood.

"All right then, let's get going. We'll pick up the car on the way back, we need to try and make up some time," Bobby said, opening the door back up.

There was an old rusty F-150 outside and Sam's shoulders dropped a bit as he wondered how exactly they were going to make up any time in this old beater. Bobby rested a reassuring on his back. "Don't worry, faster than it looks," he offered with a smile, climbing into the driver's seat. Sam just sighed and carefully pulled himself into the cab. Bobby did get here in just under eight hours on a trip that should have taken at least eleven, so he obviously knew what he was talking about.

The throaty and steady growl of the engine when Bobby turned the key gave Sam an extra boost of relief. He had been expecting coughing and sputtering, but it was running like a new truck. "Just stay on 80 east for a while," Sam instructed. "They're probably just getting there now. Probably didn't want to risk speeding with Dean in the back, so we're eight hours behind them." Eight hours in which Dean was alone, hurt, weak and cursed with a coven of witches that wanted something probably very bad from him. The very thought made Sam's knee started to jig with nervous tension. "And that's assuming they even went back there," he added in a tight voice.

As the fog in his head started to dissipate now that he was sitting still again, it was sinking in how much danger Dean was in and how far away Sam was from being able to do anything about it. He was making a lot of assumptions about Dean's safety and location that could end up with his brother seriously hurt or worse if he was wrong. What if the witches didn't need him alive for what they wanted and just let him bleed out in the back of the van? What if they just wanted his blood and just sliced his throat as soon as they got him to the cave? What if they didn't even go there, how would Sam ever find him? What if they were all ready to do whatever they meant to do the second the witches arrived with his brother and Sam and Bobby were too late? What if…

"Sam, you need to breathe." Bobby's voice broke into his litany of all the ways he could have screwed up, making him aware that he was heaving in gasping, shallow breaths that weren't doing an adequate job of pulling in any oxygen and his dizziness was coming back in full force. "We're going to get there in time, okay? And it makes sense that they would take him back, that is their place of power. You need to get yourself under control, you're playing wounded and having a fit of the vapors ain't helping any."

"I know Bobby, I know, I just hate that I left him like that. I feel so helpless," Sam choked out, still trying to even out his breathing.

Bobby glanced over at him with a slight grin. "Way I heard it, he kicked your ass out of the car, so that's on him," he reminded Sam.

Sam laughed, a bitter and weary sound. "Yeah he did. He didn't bother to consider that it might be better to do something once we got there, that together we had better chance of getting out of there," he shot out, finally acknowledging the anger that had been sitting like a hot, neglected little ball in the middle of all his worry and concern. Dean never stopped putting Sam first and himself last and Sam was tired of it getting Dean hurt. He knew it came from a good place that their Dad twisted into an obsessive compulsion, but it still frustrated him. He could be with his brother right now, keeping him safe, helping him escape, but Dean wouldn't let him. Dean never let him take point, under any circumstance.

"Yeah, well your brother only ever has one thing in mind," Bobby started, echoing Sam's thoughts. "Keeping you out of trouble. Besides, they didn't need you. They needed him, so might be better that you got out."

"I just wish he'd let me help more, you know?" Sam said softly, gazing out at the sky passing outside the window, the anger draining out of him as suddenly as it filled him. "I'm just so tired of having to put him back together, Bobby."

"I recall you getting put back together plenty of times, Sam. Dean's gonna be fine, he's gotten out of jams I was sure was going to be the end of him. He's practically got a four leaf clover tattooed on his ass. Now you want to quit moping and I'll tell you what I found out?" Bobby asked.

Sam ran a tired hand through his hair and nodded. He knew Bobby was right, Dean was always fine. Beaten, bloody, torn and broken, but at the end of it, fine. Sam was just afraid of the exception to the rule. It was inevitable. He was more afraid of it happening when he could have stopped it.

"This coven is pretty nasty. I already had some info on them when I sent you out their way, but I've been able to dig up more. A wiccan contact of mine said they are into really dark magic, that they can pull in death. I think that's where the death echoes have been coming from. I suspect they did something to Dean to make him vulnerable to them. She wasn't able to give me a lot of information, they are a secretive bunch, but she did say that it tends to be a small coven, with two head witches. They worship Moros via a stone of power, but she didn't know much more than that. I'm pretty sure that's the stone your hot headed brother broke and they want some revenge," Bobby rattled off.

"So what's our plan?" Sam asked, trying to sort through the tiny bit they knew compared to the vast amount they didn't. "Go in, guns blazing?" he added with a smile.

"Pretty close. I brought some extra protection charms and my contact gave me some spells we can do to help block their magic from us, but I don't think we're going to have a lot of time for a good plan, so we'll have to go with the bad one," Bobby said with a shrug.

"That's usually what we end up with," Sam replied with a laugh. His head dropped back against the seat, the ache starting to flare back up again. The padded bench seat was not the softest thing on the painful muscles in his back and the dodgy suspension of the truck was rattling his ribs around more than he would like. He was really missing the Impala right about now.

Bobby glanced over at him, mouth tilting down in concern. "Why don't you pass out for a bit? We've got a ways to go and it looks like you could use the rest," he offered.

"I'm good," Sam answered, trying to force himself to sit up straighter, but giving into the argument his ribs started up at the movement and slouching back down.

"Right, and I'm a unicorn. I'm tired of hearing you moan and groan every five seconds, give an old man some peace, will ya?" Bobby grumbled, offering Sam an out.

Sam didn't want to sleep. He felt like if he slipped off, it might somehow put Dean in more trouble. As if his own awareness and focus on his brother was somehow keeping him safe, keeping him alive. It made no logical sense and was completely unreasonable, but Sam couldn't help it. He also couldn't help how much he hurt and how tired he was. He knew they were hours away from their destination and that he should take advantage, but he just felt wrong about it. Besides, Bobby had been driving for eight hours straight, what if he needed a break?

In the end, it was the drone of the wheels on the road, the soft lull of music, and Bobby's comforting silence that started to pull him down into a dozing state. It was the memory of his brother's voice barking at him to rest up so he would be ready to save his ass that finally let him relax into sleep with the twitch of a smile.

###### 

Dean cringed as his fingers touched something that felt suspiciously like a bone right outside his cage, but he pulled quickly it in to examine it further. He was lying on his side in the pitch black, arm stretched out as far as he could get it, straining fingers sweeping across the floor for something, anything that might help him spring from his cage. The painkillers were still working their awesome numbing magic, but Dean remembered how his gut felt before and didn't relish the thought of lying on his stomach for fear of jacking up his insides even more. He'd managed to find the stub of a candle (useless), a fingernail (gross and awful), a few tiny stones (see candle), and now what could be a bone. That was good, that was very good. Not so much for the animal or person it came from, but it might be just what Dean needed.

He wasn't sure exactly how long ago the witch had walked away, but he had been using his time wisely. He managed to push away the steady drip of fear the witch had instilled with the explanation of their plans for him for the most part, but it was still there, surging up to bathe him in cold sweat whenever he forgot to keep it locked away. It added a frantic desperation to his search for escape that helped to clear the slightly unbalanced feeling the pain killers had given him. Of all the ways he thought he would die, and there were many, this wasn't one of them. The very thought of being frozen and locked away, seeing, but unable to interact, until someone decided to break him was right on par with his nuts being chewed off by pissed off badgers. He would take the badgers.

Turning the object over in his hands, he ran a finger over it, finding it smooth and knobby at both ends, about the length of his finger. Chicken bone, a leg. That kind of made him hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he ate, but it was a while ago. He didn't think they were going to bother feeding him, no last meal for his death sentence. Stingy bastards. Using his foot to hold it down by one of the rounded ends, he pulled up on it until it snapped. He ran his finger over the now sharp and splintered end with a satisfied smile. Shuffling over to the front of the cage, he pawed around the bars until he found the lock. Using his finger to guide it, he pushed the bone gently inside so that just the tip was resting against the sharp edge of the lock. This, at least, was one thing that wouldn't be hampered by the darkness. He didn't need eyes to pick a lock.

After a few careful minutes of gentle turns and slow levering, Dean could feel the lock give with loud click. He winced at the sound and froze, body tense as he listened for any sound that would indicate that someone had heard him. After several heart thumping moments of hearing only the sporadic and far off voices he'd been hearing since coming to, he relaxed and quickly exited his cell, palming the chicken bone. If he angled that just right, it would make a handy weapon.

When the witch had been there giving his evil villain monologue with his handy dandy candle, Dean had been reacquainting himself with the room, knowing that if he was able to get out, he was going to have to navigate in the dark. It was circular in shape with cages lining most of the wall. His cage was to the right of the entrance. He could feel the slightest bit of cool damp air blowing from that direction, smelling of dirt and minerals. Underneath that was the cloying, throat tightening smell of death and blood. He wasn't so hungry anymore.

Dean considered taking the time to check around for another weapon, but he doubted he was going to find anything and he really wanted to get out of there. He had no idea how soon they were going to come and start Venus de Milo'ing him, but he wanted to be on his way when they did. Even if he didn't make it out, he could at least go down fighting so they couldn't complete their plan. If that didn't work, well one thrust of the chicken bone to his carotid and it was all over. Dying wasn't his first plan, not even his second or third, but he was not going to become their vessel, whatever it took. That he knew for sure.

Stepping carefully, edging forward with his toes before putting his weight down, one hand pressed lightly against the rough wall, he made his way towards the open tunnel. There was the slightest bit of light turning the utter darkness to a murky gray further down. They must have lit the candles back up in the big room. He could hear the voices better now that he was right by the opening and he was able to pick out at least three, possibly four. One woman, the rest were men. Those weren't the best odds, but he did have one thing on his side; they didn't want him dead before they decided it was time. That meant he had the advantage of taking kill shots while they would treat him with kid gloves.

He stealthily made his way down the tunnel, eyes slowing adjusting to the light glowing at the end of it. He couldn't see into the big room yet, but he remembered it well enough. It was highly unlikely he would be able to make it to the stairs and the tunnel leading out without being seen, so he needed to see what he was dealing with so he could make a quick and hasty plan. As he drew closer, he was able to start actually hearing the words being spoken. Big shocker, they were talking about him.

"We'll only need a short time to prepare the vessel so we will start in an hour. That should allow enough time for the Grandmaster to return with the sacrifice." It was the woman speaking. He wasn't sure exactly what 'preparation' they were planning to give him, but he was more concerned about the hour and the sacrifice bit. He was betting that's what they needed Sam for, so he was suddenly feeling a lot better about kicking his little brother out of the van.

"You may want to allow more time." A man this time, higher in pitch, almost nasally. Dean was going to think of him as Weasel , totally sounded like one. "Grandmaster said he is a bit of a challenge." They were God damn right, he was a challenge and they hadn't seen anything yet. "He actually grabbed him when they were speaking." So the head honcho had been the one talking to Dean. Good to know.

A quick peek into the room showed Dean all he needed to know before he hid back into the darkness. The candles were all lit, coating the earthen room with cozy warm light that completely belied the awful things they did in that room. There were three people in the room, covered in heavy black robes. They were standing by a table covered with various items that he couldn't quite make out in the middle of the room. None of them were directly facing the opening of the tunnel, but it would be easy to see his movement no matter how careful he was. That ruled out the full on assault and the sneaky and silent takedowns.

"Perhaps you're right. It won't do any harm to put him under early. The alleviation spell should be wearing off soon anyway and it would be best if his body does not have to deal with the stress of the pain he will surely be in." Man, where did these people learn how to talk? It was like some weird LARPing thing, all strangely formal and correct. So it wasn't painkillers they had given him, it was a spell. A spell that was about to wear off. Awesome. "Timothy, if you would, please?"

Finally. A break in his favor.

The man he had not seen speak since gazing in on their little party nodded within his hood and started towards the tunnel. Dean moved quickly and quietly back to the room, sliding to the side of the doorway. He was hoping Timothy wouldn't notice he wasn't in his cell before Dean made his move. It was going to be important that he took him out quickly. If there was any noise, he was going to have two more witches on him in a heartbeat and he was sure they had some easy way to subdue him. He tensed his body, ignored the twinges in his stomach that were starting back up again, ready to spring into action as soon as Timothy crossed in front of him.

The light starting to fill the room was growing stronger and brighter, bringing Timothy closer and closer. Dean could hear his footsteps, then his breathing. The man crossed into the room. As soon as he was fully within, Dean launched, one arm snaking around Timothy's neck, the other coming up to close around his mouth. The candle dropped to the floor, snuffing out immediately. Dean dragged the man into the middle of the room so his kicking legs had nothing loud to hit as he strangled him. He was going to go for the neck break, make it quick and clean so he could use Timothy's robe, but the tremor in his muscles told him he just didn't have the strength at the moment. Hands clawed at his arms, elbows jolted back into his ribs and stomach, feet kicked at his shins and knees, but Dean kept him pinned, teeth gritting with the effort of squeezing the life out of him.

His struggles were finally lessening, just jerks and fits of motion. Dean could feel his burst of energy quickly draining away and put everything he had into keeping the tight clamp of his arm around the witch's neck. He could feel the pounding, desperate pulse against his skin starting to slow. It wouldn't be much longer now, just needed him to pass out and then a bit more time after that and he would only have two witches to deal with.

At least that's what should have happened.

Instead, whatever had been keeping his pain locked away was suddenly gone and Dean went from a few mild twinges of discomfort to full on blazing, mind numbing, excruciating agony. He felt a scream bubbling up his throat, swallowed back with great effort, caught off guard by the sudden resurgence of the pain. His arms that had been trembling with strain were suddenly too heavy to hold up, and even though he tried to keep his grip, knew he only needed a few more seconds, his body wasn't able to follow his commands. They dropped to his sides and he stumbled back on unsteady legs. He could feel heat starting to rush over him, feel that sucking pull of unconsciousness as the waves of pain radiated out from his wound, slicing and tearing.

Dean fell to his knees, the sharp pain of bone hitting the floor lost in the jolt it did on his insides. He fought to pull himself forward, his breathing now coming in shallow pants. Fingers closed over cloth and then a body. The witch was down, but alive. Over the roaring in his hears, he could hear the gasping breaths of the man in front of him. Dean grabbed the chicken bone, forcing his shaking fingers to close around it. It was the only chance he had. With his other hand, he continued to feel his way over the man. He felt warm skin, a jaw. Dean drove the sharp end of the chicken bone into space below it, feeling the hot spurt of blood erupt over his hand.

So much for the robe.

Collapsing on the ground as weakness overtook his body, Dean gasped for air on the packed dirt, the man's thrashing arms and legs striking him in his death throes. His insides felt cold and wet, but the throbbing inside was hot and merciless as it met the tortured pace of his heartbeat. He tried to pull upon every bit of training he had to get his legs under him, to move, to escape, but it was too much. The best he managed to do was turn over slightly so his weight wasn't resting on his wound. He stared into the dark in frustrated terror, knowing they would be coming to check soon and he wasn't going to be able to move to stop them from taking him.

Sam and Bobby were coming. Dean knew that just as sure as he knew he was breathing, but he wasn't so sure they were going to get there in time. Those witches said he only had an hour at best. He didn't know long he had been down there or how long it took them to get back to the cave, but he could only imagine that the witches had a considerable head start on his rescuers.

He was running low on options, his body was running low on fight.

The image of the chicken bone flitted across his mind even as his hand started to reach out towards the now still form beside him. If he was going to do it, he needed to do it before he passed out. He already had recent practice, he knew exactly where to stick it.

No. It wasn't time for that yet, he still had some things to try before Plan Z.

He had to stall. He had to give Sam more time to get there. Sam was already going to be pissed about the whole kicking him out of the van thing and he would be really mad if Dean offed himself right as he crashed in to save him. His plan was risky, being built around the assumption that they couldn't let him die, but then all his plans were dodgy at best. The life of a hunter rarely offered solid plans without any potential to go wrong. Okay, make that never.

His fingers found the witch again. Dean felt cooling blood beneath his fingers, sliding over skin. He bumped the hard bone and yanked it free. He dropped onto his back, not able to hold his position on his side any longer. He knew that if wasn't dark, he wouldn't be seeing well. He could just tell from the strain on his eyes and in his temples that he was out of time. He was shutting down, drawing away from the pain.

Placing the sharp edge of the bone against his wrist, he took a deep breath and pushed it in until it broke the skin. It should have hurt, it should have been the type of pain that makes you say "What the fuck am I doing?" so you stop, but it didn't. He knew that wasn't good, that he was in more trouble than he might have thought, but at that moment it worked in his favor. He drew it up towards his elbow and he knew the blood was spillingpouringgushing over his skin to join the witch's on the floor. He didn't feel it, not really. He was numb, all the nerves and sensation seeming to be focused on the screaming in his belly. He knew the effects of blood loss and had already been feeling them, so he had no idea how impactful this last trauma was on his body, but he knew it was pretty dumb. He didn't have any other ideas though, not when his body wouldn't work.

Gathering up what energy he had left, he screamed, a loud, thick noise full of pain, rage and sadness that echoed through the room, spilled down the tunnel.

He could hear them coming. Perfect.

He listened to them approach, gasping in the dark. Everything was starting to get very far away. The sound of footsteps, the pain, his heartbeat. Only one thing remained, one thought to hold onto.

Sammy was going to get there. Sammy was going to get there. Sammy was...


	10. Chapter 10

It was his stomach that brought him around, but not in any good way. It was heaving and churning, managing to twist the emptiness there into something substantial, sloshing from side to side as he swayed.

Swayed?

Dean was vaguely aware of being carried. He couldn't feel the hands, but opening his eyes only showed him the bleary contours of an earthen ceiling, moving above him at a rapid pace. There was a ringing in his head, slamming into the confines of his skull with furious volume, seeming to ricochet back and forth between the bones like there was no brain to block it. Blood loss. He could almost remember why he knew it was from that, but the thought wouldn't fully form. He wanted to see who had him and where they were taking him, but his eyes had already closed again and he was being swallowed into that same darkness he saw behind his lids.

It was voices that drew him out the next time, agitated and terrified voices, that penetrated into his nothing cocoon without any regard for how it was affecting him, not seeing or caring that he was cringing away from the volume. Bastards.

"Then try something else! Don't you let him die or you will be the first sacrifice!" The woman, her voice shrill with panic. God his head hurt, he really wished she would shut up. At least the pain he remembered from his stomach was nothing more than a dull ache.

"There won't be a sacrifice if he dies, the power will be gone, Rebecca! Now keep pressure on the cut so I can try another incantation." It was Weasel. They were afraid of him dying? Why? They were just going to kill him anyway.

Wait.

He remembered then. His brilliant, okay insane, stall tactic to keep the witches busy trying to make sure he didn't lose all the blood in his body so Sam and Bobby could make it. Looks like for once it was actually going his way. They must have already done something to him because he was feeling better, maybe a three on the scale instead of off the chart and sinking. Of course, it was possible that he was just so far gone into shock, that his system was offline. Either way, he wasn't going to be up for whatever little ceremony they had planned. He was calling that a success.

He could hear monotone murmuring above him and figured Weasel was trying to work some mojo to keeping him breathing. Dean debated for a moment if he should disrupt him, make a move to escape. He knew he wouldn't make it in the condition he was in, but the longer they were busy trying to subdue and heal him, or whatever the hell they were doing, the more time it gave Sammy. He didn't find fault with that plan and started to put it in motion, but he had vastly overestimated how well he was feeling.

The signal he sent to his arm to sweep outward and knock the witch off balance was just a useless twitch of muscle, moving nothing more than his wrist. The other arm was buried under the weight of Witchy Rebecca, so he was going to turn in her direction and kick out with his legs. That was aborted when the clench of his stomach muscles woke up the sleeping knives in his wound with a vengeance, only a pathetic groan behind his suddenly clenched lips the result of the effort.

Shit. Well it was worth a try, even if it had been a failure of monumental proportions.

Since they knew he was awake now, Dean didn't bother with the pretense of unconsciousness, his eyes flying open to fasten immediately on those of the woman leaning over above him. She was young and pretty, her eyes a bright blue smothered in so much alarm and fear that he couldn't help but feel a zing of accomplishment. He may have had to nearly kill himself to do it, but he scared them.

"Hey there, sweetheart. You here for my sponge bath?'" he asked, not caring that his words ran together with very little enunciation. He'd been mostly dead for a while, that was the best it was getting for a bit.

She understood them well enough, because he saw anger join all the other emotions lurking in her eyes. "You stupid boy. You have no idea what you nearly destroyed. Something so much bigger than you, so much more than you can ever be…."

"Stuff it, I've heard it. Get some new material. And for the record, I know exactly what I'm going to destroy and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it," he announced calmly.

An evil smile spread over pretty Rebecca's face. "You think so? How much will you enjoy dying? Because that's the only way it's getting out of you. Two options. Become our vessel or die," she spat.

Dean wasn't surprised, he'd already been told as much. "You call those options? Well clearly," he said, motioning down at the blood stained cloth covering his arm beneath her hands with a nod of his head, "dying is not a problem for me. If it will shut you evil sons of bitches down, sign me up. You aren't getting me." His own smile was full of satisfaction and orneriness. It felt good.

She opened her mouth to continue to spit her fury, but she was interrupted by Weasel's "Rebecca! Stop baiting him." Dean's eyes swung over to the other witch. His skin was pale, a fine sheen of sweat coating his face. Trying to save his life must have taken a lot out of him. Good. "Check it so we can see if this one worked."

Rebecca glared down a Dean for a moment more, then pulled back to peel the cloth off his arm. Dean craned his head up slightly to look with her, trying to keep his middle as still as possible. He did note that his headache was starting to slide away in small increments, the pain in his stomach getting farther away. It was almost like morphine. It didn't take the pain away, exactly, it just made you not care about it. Must have been the same thing they did to him earlier.

Under the cloth, the ragged tear in his arm was still there, the torn and gaping sides of the cut ugly and red. He could see the muscle and tendons underneath, and he cringed seeing how deep he had made it. Well, it wasn't like he had been able to see what he was doing. Slicing up your arm with a roughly cut chicken bone by braille was unlikely to be pretty. The strange thing was that it wasn't bleeding anymore. It should have been, nothing had been done to close it and, with a sickening twist of his already pissed off stomach, he could actually see the blood pumping down the torn veins, blood that should still be spilling over his arm. It's like they put some sort of invisible bandage on it. If they weren't such skeevy assholes, it'd be real helpful to have them on a hunt.

"It worked," Rebecca said with a relieved smile.

"Praise to Moros," Weasel breathed wearily.

Screw Moros.

The witches moved away and Dean was finally able to see that he was in the big room, lying on the table he had seen earlier. He watched them carefully and saw them stop to speak to each other softly, just out of earshot. It would be the perfect time to get moving, if he could just move.

Dean's limbs still felt like they weren't really attached, and his attempt to move his various parts proved unsuccessful, so he suspected that whatever supernatural band aid they had given him was for cosmetic purposes only and to block the stress that pain caused on the body. It didn't actually heal anything, which meant that his body was still on the verge of shutting down. That wasn't exactly the position he wanted to be in. He had been hoping for well enough to fight, weak enough that he couldn't manage their ritual or dead. Instead, he was exactly where they wanted him. Just on the right side of stable and coherent, but too hurt to do anything to help himself.

It seemed they had won after all. Son of a bitch.

He wasn't giving up, but he knew that his chances to save himself were shrinking every second. He was pretty sure he had bled through most of the hour he initially had to work with before their Grandmaster got back with their victim, and he figured the big dog would have been in there trying to save him if he was already back, so it couldn't be much longer before they got started. He had been hoping that it would take them longer to patch him up.

He didn't buy Sammy enough time.

Panic started to fill him then, not for himself, but for how Sam would react if he was too late. Dean was the one who made sure Sam was safe from the witches, but it also split them up, made it so Sam wasn't nearby to help him. Sam was going to blame himself, he was going to tear himself apart that he was too late. Dean stood by his decision to get Sam to safety, but he knew Sam wouldn't, and he had to admit, that maybe, just maybe, it would have been better for them to stay together. So he owed it to Sam to stay alive so his little brother could tear him a new one. There had to be something else Dean could do.

First, he had to get his body working again.

He glanced over one more time at the witches and saw that they were still talking amongst themselves, paying Dean no attention. They were confident that whatever spell they had worked would keep Dean in place. Well he had built a reputation on being a pain in the ass and not staying down when he should and he wasn't about to stop now.

Staring intently at his right hand, he tried to get his fingers to move. "Move your damn finger," he muttered. If it worked for Uma Thurman, it would work for him.

###### 

Sam awoke with a startled gasp, eyes jerking down to see that the thing shaking his arm was Bobby's hand. He looked up at the older man in sleepy confusion, trying to kick his brain into gear.

"Sorry to wake you, but I need directions," Bobby said, a map spread over the steering wheel.

Sitting up a bit straighter, Sam looked out the window to see that they were pulled off the road by the town that he and Dean had passed on the way to the cavern. It seemed so long ago now, even though it had only been just over a week. Glancing at the clock in the dash, he saw that six hours had passed since Bobby had picked him up.

"Breaking land speed records, Bobby?" Sam asked with a dry chuckle, rubbing his fingers into his sleep dried eyes.

"As much as I could. Didn't see a single cop, luck was on our side. Let's hope it stays there, huh?" Bobby replied lightly.

Sam listed the streets and turns to take, knowing he would only have to tell Bobby once. His sense of direction was uncanny. Tossing the map into the back, Bobby pulled back out onto the road, heading for the first turn.

"How you doing?" Bobby asked with a glance his way.

"Not too bad," Sam answered, somewhat in surprise. The nap he took worked wonders. His head was still aching and felt like it would be for a while, but it wasn't so bad that he couldn't think. His ribs weren't any better, but he hadn't expected them to be. Just having that screaming pain out of his head was enough for him to call it good.

"Glad to hear it. Okay, I think we're only about a half hour out, so let's work out our approach. You said there's two entrances, right?" Bobby prompted.

"Yeah, one that leads straight to a stairwell into the big chamber. The other one Dean found on accident, it's a trap door. It seems to lead under the main tunnel and lets out into the room. That might be our best bet, I don't think it's probably as well used and the entrance into the big room isn't so obvious," Sam said, easily remembering the details of the area.

The thought that he was only thirty minutes and a few witches away from Dean was starting to sink in, sending nervous tension through his weary body, flooding it with adrenaline that was starting tighten muscles and wake up tired reflexes. He felt in his bones that Dean was still alive, that he could still get there in time. He had trusted that feeling all his life and he hadn't been wrong yet.

"Okay, so we trigger the trap door and head in. Any idea how many witches we'll be facing?" Bobby continued.

"No, we only saw two there and we killed both of them. There were three men in the van that ran us off the road, but I don't if they were all witches. Only one of them used spells on us. I stabbed one of them. I don't remember seeing him, so they must have taken him with them. He should be dead, but who knows?" Sam said with a wry shrug. He was hoping they couldn't bring the dead back to life, but he'd seen crazier things in his time, so couldn't rule it out.

"So at least two, probably more. My contact said they keep the coven small, so I think we should plan on at least five. We'll have some protection from their magic, but not from everything, so shoot to kill. We won't have time to play around," Bobby warned.

"Yeah, I get it," Sam confirmed softly. Bobby wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. They were seriously out numbered, out gunned and they had his brother. Every shot had to count. He remembered the debilitating pain that had crashed into his head when they were taking Dean. He had been unable to move, to think, to do anything other than hurt for a period of time. If that happened again, it was over and they were all dead. So they couldn't give the witches a chance to act.

"I know we typically go in more prepared than this. I just…," Sam broke off before he could continue. If this went sideways, which it so easily could, then he was responsible for getting Bobby killed too. There had just been no other choice. He felt like he should apologize, but suspected Bobby would beat the shit of him if he did. "Thanks Bobby. For helping us," he finally finished, looking over at the man who had been like a father to him all his life.

"Boy, how many times have I told you that you don't need to thank for me for shit like this? You're my boys, you couldn't keep me away. Now how about we stop all the blubbering and get ready. Grab my bag back there, let's start getting those spells going," Bobby ordered gruffly. Sam didn't miss the disgruntled look Bobby sent his way, nor did he miss the fondness in the older man's eyes.

He smiled to himself as he reached back for the small bag Bobby had in the tiny space between the seat and the back of the cab. Talking feelings with Bobby was usually about as successful as talking about them with Dean, which meant not at all, but at least Bobby didn't shut down like his brother. Opening it up, he could see a small wooden box, several baggies with what appeared to be herbs inside, a notebook, a mortar and pestle. He gathered them all onto the open part of the seat between the two of them.

"All right, now in the box are the charms. Should be a good mix in there. Just portion them out evenly. I think you can manage the spells, nothing fancy. They are listed in the notebook," Bobby said, taking stock of the items on the seat.

Sam got to work, sifting through charms and mixing the herbs in the bags into components for the protection spells. They were extremely basic and didn't require any special ability, which was fortunate because they didn't have any. He draped half of the charms over Bobby's head, and then the rest over his own. He spoke each spell clearly, burning the mixture of herbs, then tossing the remains out the window to start the next one. He didn't feel any different, but he trusted that Bobby knew what he was doing.

The next thing he knew, they were stopping and Sam looked up in question to see the shack. His eyes narrowed on it in grim determination. He was going to burn that thing to the ground when they were done here, do whatever he could to make sure the coven couldn't regroup and use it again. He wasn't sure how he was going to destroy the underground area itself, but he would find a way. Gathering up their weapons, they got out of the car. Sam stuffed Dean's Colt into his jacket. His brother would need it on the way out, because there was no way he was leaving without Dean.

There were no other cars around, so they still had no indication of how many witches might be inside, but in the end it didn't matter. There was no time to do anything other than what they had already planned; go in hard, go in mean and kill everything that moved that wasn't his brother.

As far as plans went, it sucked, but it was the only one they had.


	11. Chapter 11

The inside of the shack looked exactly the same as it did before, empty and barren, dust and cobwebs the only adornment. Sam moved immediately to the trap door that led to the cavern, and with a nod of confirmation at Bobby, who immediately moved into position to cover the opening with his shotgun, Sam jerked it up by the hidden handle recessed into the wood. A set of stairs descended into the murky darkness, the far off flickering of a candle set in the wall barely illuminating the bottom.

Sam moved down first, his gun held ready. He immediately moved to the side to keep watch on the empty tunnel while Bobby met him on the ground. They took a moment to get their bearings, their eyes adjusting to the dim light, ears open for the slightest break in the silence. Sam knew the trap door was about midway in the tunnel. He remembered clearly the panic he had gone through when Dean had just disappeared without warning. One minute he'd been there, the next he'd been gone. He remembered every second he had spent in a cold sweat trying to get the door to open again so that he could follow, or at least confirm that Dean was okay. So he knew without any doubt that he would know it when he saw it.

Quirking his eyebrow at Bobby in question to make sure he was ready, he moved forward at Bobby's nod. They had decided against flashlights. While it would have made traveling the tunnel easier, it would have also made them a clear target. They needed every advantage that stealth could bring them. The light wasn't great, a few candles spaced in inconsistent increments on the walls, but it was enough to have a general idea of where to go.

They reached the trapdoor without incident. Sam could just make it out, the wooden cover recessed into the floor. Now they just had to figure out how to trigger it. Sam had already told Bobby that he'd been unable to do it and had gone over everything he'd tried. Bobby thought it might have some sort of timer, or reset device so that it only opened once. Maybe the point of it was to separate people just for kicks. As Bobby had said, they were witches, who knew what they did for fun?

"Okay, really slow and stick close together so we both go, all right?" Bobby whispered so quietly that Sam wouldn't have been sure he spoke at all had he not seen his lips moving.

The men started tapping the floor with their feet, standing close enough together that Sam could almost hear Dean asking when they were sending their wedding invitations, earning a glare from Sam and smack on the back of the head from Bobby. Sam smiled just a little at the thought, the smile dropping almost instantly when he realized that it was possible he would never hear one of Dean's juvenile wisecracks again.

No, that wasn't going to happen. They were going to make it.

Without any warning, the trap opened and Bobby and Sam fell through. It had clearly not been meant to handle the width of two people, and Sam got caught on the edge, colliding with a painful whack on his chest. Then Bobby was through, clearing the way. Sam could feel the door trying to swing back up, pressing against his thighs. With a deep breath, he pushed off the ledge and plummeted down after Bobby, the sound of the trap slamming shut echoing above him.

The landed in a tangle of limbs, sharp bones poking into tender places, hands flailing for purchase. It was enough of a drop that their breath was startled from their chests, even though Bobby broke Sam's fall a bit. He was sure the older hunter was going to be thrilled about that. Sam heard a grunt from Bobby when his knee pushed into something soft trying to lift himself off. With a helpful, if harder than needed, shove Bobby pushed against Sam's shoulders, tossing him over to the side.

They got to their feet immediately, checking their persons and pockets to make sure they hadn't lost anything in the fall. Luckily there was a bit of light down here as well, so Sam was able to see Bobby's shaky thumbs up. Sam had everything he needed as well, so motioned them forward.

Sam had been tense from the moment they were five miles out from the shack, waiting and ready to do battle. As they moved closer to the end of this tunnel that would lead him into the big room and hopefully Dean, that tension was turning uglier, stronger and more invasive. It was one thing to believe that someone was breathing, that you had made it in time, but it was another to actually see it, to prove that you weren't just blowing sunshine up your ass.

And he was absolutely terrified of what they might see when they crossed the threshold.

He refused to go through all the horrible options again, he'd already had them flashing through his brain with full sight and sound since he hit the asphalt back near South Bend, and it had almost been enough to lose whatever might be left in his stomach. He had meant what he said to Bobby. He was tired of putting Dean back together, because he knew he would just have to turn around and do it all over again the next day. The man had no sense of self preservation, he just threw himself in front of whatever bad thing was coming. He loved his brother for that, but man….he just knew it was going to take his brother away from him someday. That's something he was never going to be ready for.

The opening was ahead, he could see the brightness of all the candles flooding into the tunnel. Not the best news, it wouldn't help to conceal their approach, but it would make it easier to see what they were dealing with. He could just make out the murmur of voices, a man and a woman, neither sounding like Dean. He stayed pressed against the side of the wall, grimacing when he saw bloody things that may have previously been animals hanging there. Dean had mentioned those, his disgust evident. Skirting them carefully, he continued forward, making every step, every movement, completely silent. Bobby trailed behind, equally soundless.

They came around a small bend and Sam was finally able to see a small bit of the room. The sight of Dean's feet, still encased in boots, was the first thing he saw, hanging off a table in the center. The second thing he noticed, quickly snuffing out every bit of elation and relief that started to rise within him, was that they were not moving. Needing to see more of Dean, Sam craned his head, his gaze now able to take in Dean's legs up to his hips. That also brought into focus the stains that had turned his light colored jeans to black. Sam almost ran forward then, but Bobby must have seen the same thing and knew how Sam was going to react, his hand closing over the younger man's arm to hold him in place. Sam glared down at him for a moment, trying to jerk away, when rational thought came back to him. Running in there was not going to do anything except get them, and maybe Dean, killed.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the pace of his heart, the blood pounding through his veins, the rage tightening his jaw. It was imperative that he keep calm and focused. It was too much to ask that he not be worried and scared, but it had to remain buried until the job was done. He had to think of things reasonably and logically so he could maintain his cool. Of course Dean was covered in blood, he had already known that, he had seen the evidence that Dean had ripped his stitches in the van. It didn't mean they had done anything more to him. It didn't mean he was lying dead on that table.

"We should start now," a female voice said. "I'm not sure how much longer he's going to last."

Sam absorbed those words, tasting them like a bitter pill melting on his tongue.

Fuck calm. Those sons of bitches were dead.

Channeling his brother felt good.

###### 

Dean had managed to get some movement back, his arms and torso were his again, but he was still having trouble getting his legs to work. He was now convinced that it wasn't so much his injuries causing this as whatever spell they did. He'd been hurt worse than this before and didn't have this sense of deadness in his body, so it had to be related to whatever they had done to keep him alive. One might think they didn't trust him to sit still. Witches could be taught. Continuing his singular focus in trying to get each muscle moving, he could feel sweat dripping down his cold face as the sense of urgency ramped up. The witches had started to look at him again, still conversing quietly enough that he couldn't hear them, but he did not like the looks on their faces. He was being careful with his movements, but they had to have caught him a few times. The fact that it didn't bother them in the slightest was cause for concern.

"We should start now. I'm not sure how much longer he's going to last."

The words that Witchy Rebecca said loud enough for him to hear sent pure panic roaring down his spine, his fingers jerking at the rush of adrenaline. He wasn't ready yet, half of his body still wasn't working. Fighting wasn't an option unless they wanted to hold still while he punched them to death, or got close enough to bite or something. When your only method of attack was rolling over and flopping on the bad guys a lot, you were royally fucked. Yeah, this was no good.

"Dammit, move your god damned legs, Dean!" he ground out, not caring anymore if they heard him, only caring that they were moving towards him.

Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye, only years of training with John Winchester keeping him from full on looking at it. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, so much so that he almost believed it might be a cruel trick that his head was playing on him in his pending death, one last little 'haha, gotcha' his brain decided to throw at him. It was no illusion though, he realized with relief. Even his best imaginings couldn't conjure up that expression of fury and intent twisting those well known features into something dangerous.

Sasquatch had arrived and he was pissed.

If Dean could have worked up the energy and he didn't want to hide his brother's approach from the witches, he would have cheered and not given two shits about how stupid it would have looked. As it was, he could feel his icy skin growing warmer as hope and the thrill of a fight started to rush through his veins. Yeah, he may not be able to feel his legs quite yet, but he was still ready to go when he could. No way could he let Sam face these bastards alone, look where it had gotten him. Laid out on a table with a ripped open arm. A huge fail on both counts.

Distraction was in order now. He didn't need legs for that.

"So where's the grand pubah? We can't get this party started without the MC!" he exclaimed, feeling a bright burst of triumph when his knee flexed. Just a bit more, baby, come on!

Witchy Rebecca smirked at him, stopping beside him. Weasel was starting to come up toward his head which would put him in easy view of Sam starting to make his way out of the tunnel and Dean tried to quickly find an option that would keep his back to his brother, but Weasel continued on out of Dean's sight. He twisted his head to see that he was going to another smaller table, where there was a bowl and other implements. They must have moved everything that was on this table to that one when he was brought in bleeding out.

"Oh we won't, but there are preparations to be done. Any last words? I'll be putting you in a fugue state for the ritual, so these really are your last moments," she explained, smoothing a hand over his damp brow.

Dean smiled, his biggest shit eating grin ever. "You think so, huh?" She had no idea that Sam was lining up a shot and holy shit! Bobby was there too! Oh, they were so dead.

"You really think we don't know your friends are here?" her smug eyes belying the playful quality of her voice.

Okay that wasn't good.

Things started to move really fast then. Witchy Rebecca turned around swiftly, her hand flying out. Sam was lifted and thrown into a bank of candles, rolling through them at speed to slam against the wall. His gun went flying the opposite way. Weasel was back by his head without any warning, his own hands gesturing towards Bobby, a strange language passing his lips. Bobby froze, his face going incredibly pale, his eyes wide. Then he doubled over with a hoarse cry, blood spewing from his mouth.

"They have protection!" Weasel shouted out. Dean was suddenly very afraid of what those spells should have done if this is what happened with a magical shield.

He could see Sam struggling to extricate himself from the candles, his clothes covered with drying wax, parts of him actually on fire. He had already pulled another gun, but he seemed to be having trouble standing. His chest would come off the floor, his arms coming down to push off, when he would just fall back again with a grunt. Just trying to aim the gun was beyond him, his arms just pushed back down to the ground. Sam's eyes raised to Dean's, and he could see the frustration and alarm even with the distance. Dean tried to project faith and strength back to him, let his little brother know that he believed in him, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. He probably just looked as freaked out as he was.

Dean looked over at Bobby. The older man was on his knees now, blood still pouring out of his mouth, soaking the front of his shirt, but he was already aiming his shotgun and firing. It struck Rebecca in the leg, not a kill shot by any stretch, but Dean knew that he was trying to avoid hitting him. She listed with a screech, her hand clawing over Dean's stomach to try and get some leverage to remain standing. Dean's shout of pain joined hers as her nails and stiff fingers dragged through his torn and tortured flesh. He glared over at her, his arm clasping hers to pull her off. It was the cut arm and it wasn't working quite the way it should, pesky torn tendons, and he was about to adjust to the other arm when he had a recollection of his earlier thoughts on fighting tactics when he was partially paralyzed.

Hell, why not?

With a truly amused smile, he rolled with her, keeping a tight grasp on her arm. He braced for the fall, knowing it was going to hurt since he was coming down face first. She impacted the ground first, followed a millisecond later by Dean. He angled elbows and the one knee he could move to strike first, to hurt and incapacitate. She was on her side, one of his elbows shoved into her neck, the arm holding her arm shoving into her ribs. His knee had unerringly gone for the wound in her leg and her pained howl and the warm wetness soaking into his skin said that he had hit it.

Let's hear it for the flopper attack.

He didn't escape unscathed, her own elbow was pressing into his now bleeding stomach, making his vision white out as starbursts of pain exploded in front of his eyes. He kept his grip on her through some act of some entity, though now he was pretty sure he was going to throw up on her. If he wasn't one hundred percent sure it was going to hurt way worse than the amount of satisfaction he would get from it, he would have let it fly. As it was, he choked it back down, using whatever parts of him still worked to try and keep her pinned.

The attack on her must have been enough to break through the spell holding Sam because he saw his brother now standing, frantically smacking at his clothes to extinguish the various sections that were on fire. If Dean wasn't so concerned, it would almost be funny that he could see Sam's boxer briefs through the charred hole on his thigh. Sam was almost fire free when Weasel turned his attention to him, seeming to throw the same thing at Sam as he did at Bobby. Sam's hard won standing position was taken from him abruptly as he doubled over, arms crossed around his middle, blood coursing over his lips and down his chin.

"That the only thing you got?" Dean challenged, glaring over at Weasel, who was looking a bit peeky. He must not have recharged all his juice from healing Dean. Maybe that last thing he threw at Sam had been his whole load.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted in concern, his voice thick with blood, trying to reload the shotgun with hands that didn't seem to function correctly. Either he was bleeding out and weakening, or there had been more to the spell than it seemed.

Dean had one of them contained, at least until he passed out which was starting to not seem too far off, but it wasn't enough. Sam and Bobby were down, and neither one of them were getting up any sooner than Dean was. Dean didn't want to admit to the growing hopelessness of the situation, but it wasn't looking good. Rebecca was starting to struggle, and while she was hurt, she wasn't doing nearly as bad as Dean was. It wouldn't be long before she was up again, his grasp was weakening. He didn't know what else to do, he realized bleakly. He had nothing left.

In the end, he didn't need to do anything.

With a choked roar, Sam levered up, his gun coming up with him. He fired before he was even fully vertical, his legs shaking beneath him, his arm wavering. But it was enough. Dean heard a sound that could have only come from Weasel that sounded like a balloon losing a spurt of its air, then he was collapsing on the floor in front of their prone forms, a bloody hole between his sightless eyes.

"Nice shot, Sammy," Dean gasped, still trying to hold the struggling woman down. It was getting harder and harder to do, and he didn't think it had anything to do with her. His body had taken enough abuse and it was tapping out, whether he was willing or not.

Sam's legs filled his vision then and he looked up to see his blood covered brother aiming his gun at Witchy Rebecca and with a bang, gave her a bullet wound to match her buddy. Dean collapsed in relief, using his last remaining strength to roll off the dead woman beneath him. Trying to even out his heaving breaths, he looked up at Sam, a wan smile of relief spreading across his lips when he saw that the blood had stopped flowing and Sam's color had come back into his skin.

For a moment, Sam just kept his eyes on the witches on the ground, his mouth tight and trembling with anger, his nostrils flaring as he drew in breath. His eyes were cold with satisfaction and hot with rage all at the same time. The gun was still aimed, as if daring them to get back up. Or maybe he just wanted to shoot them some more.

"You smote those sons of bitches, Sam," Dean said softly, his voice infused with pride and awe. He was starting to feel real floaty again and it occurred to him that because ding dong the witches were dead, that meant whatever was making his arm stop gushing blood had went with them. A quick check verified that and it was not a pretty sight. He wasn't sure how much blood he had left in him to lose, but he was damn sure he didn't have any to spare.

Sam's eyes jerked over to his then, and all that righteous fury bled out, replaced by concern and relief. He was on his knees beside Dean's prone form immediately, his hands going to Dean's shoulders to pull him upright. Dean winced at the movement, but didn't stop Sam. He would take a little bit of discomfort to get off the bloodstained floor.

"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted with a strained smile, his worried gaze moving over Dean's body with clinical assessment. "Are you…," The second his eyes saw the gaping red maw that was now Dean's left forearm, they widened impossibly. "Jesus Dean," he whispered, already awkwardly shrugging out of his coat with one arm so he could hold Dean up with the other. Sam adjusted the coat so that all the charred spots were hidden away and pressed it hard into the wound. "Were they trying to bleed you out?" Sam asked hoarsely.

Dean had a moment where he considered saying that they did. Sam was going to be uber pissed when he found out that he had done it himself and he wasn't sure he could help his brother understand why he had done it. He really did intend to do it to stall for time, to use the witches' weakness of needing him alive against them. But his good intentions didn't change the fact that it could have gone wrong, that they may not have cared, or may not have been able to keep him going. That, at the time, that was okay too. Anything was better than being a rock with some morbid Greek personification that got off on his own crap for all eternity.

But he wasn't going to lie to Sam. He sucked at lying to Sam and he didn't want a return of his vengeful brother when he found out, this time pointed in his direction. There was no energy left in him for it.

"No, I did it, but they were going to make me into a stone, Sam. I just needed to give you more time," Dean explained hurriedly, the brilliant speech he had started to cook up lost amid the resumption of the bells clamoring through his head. Blood loss was definitely starting to be an issue. What he wouldn't give for a bed and a few pillows right now. A few pints of blood would be good too.

Sam looked like he'd been punched in the face, something coming into his eyes that spoke of shock, betrayal, and deep down, ball shrinking fear. Then there was the hint of tears. That tore through Dean, made him wish he had given the lie a shot, at least until he was in a better frame of mind to explain why he had to do it. Sam opened his mouth to speak, when Bobby moved into view, crouching down beside them. Sam's mouth snapped shut, but that terrified, wounded gaze said everything for him.

"Damn boy, you're a mess," Bobby observed, his concerned gaze bouncing between the ragged end of the wound on his arm not covered by the jacket and his blood soaked stomach. Bobby was also looking much better, no sign that anything had been wrong at all except for the red mess down his chin and front.

"But I'm still pretty," Dean replied, a smile crooking up one side of his mouth.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion, kid. You aren't going to be winning any beauty pageants the way you look right now. Any more of them?" Bobby asked, always good for getting to the heart of the current issue.

"Yeah, the boss is out kidnapping my initiation sacrifice. I don't know if there are others," Dean informed him, his breathing starting to get erratic and shallow again despite his efforts to keep it measured and even. "He was the driver of the van," Dean added to Sam.

"We'll just need to come back for him, we need to get you the hospital," Sam said firmly, starting to gather Dean up in his arms.

Dean put up his token struggle about being carried like some chick on the cover of a romance novel, but since his legs were still a little absent, and he was pretty sure he couldn't walk all that well even if they weren't, he let Sam's tight lipped glare silence him. There was something comforting about being held against Sam's strong chest, kind of like when Dad would carry him up to bed when he was little. He would never admit that outside of his own head, even with a knife pressed to his junk, but the thought was safe in his own mind.

"Shouldn't take me to the hospital," Dean mumbled as they started to make their way out of the cavern, up the stairs to the main tunnel this time. His tongue felt abnormally large and thick in his mouth, making it difficult to maneuver it around the words. His vision was getting more and more out of focus, the darkness gnawing at the edges, slowly but surely pressing further inward. "They're gonna think I'm a suicide." That meant restraints and psychologists. More importantly, he was still cursed with the death echoes. A hospital was the last place he wanted to be.

"They wouldn't be all that wrong, would they?" Sam bit out.

Dean sighed. "Sammy, told you. Wasn't trying to off myself, just needed time. I'll tell you all about it, when I can think again, k?" Dean promised, hoping Sam could make out the words with all the slurring.

He could feel Sam's own deep sigh against his cheek. Jesus, did he really have his face pressed up in the crook of his brother's neck? He was going to sprout ovaries any second. If he wasn't so damned comfortable, he really would insist on being let down.

"I know Dean, I'm sorry. It's just…. It doesn't matter. We'll talk about it when you're better." Sam's voice was soothing, even if it was filled with weariness, edged with pain.

"You all right, Sam?" Dean asked. It occurred to Dean that he didn't really think about everything Sam had gone through to get to him. He could only imagine how hurt he might have been after his close encounter with the asphalt kind thanks to Dean and how much he must have pushed to get there. He didn't miss the scrapes on his face or the black circles under his eyes. Not to mention the whole fire thing and what the hell ever else that witch did to him and Bobby.

"I'm good, Dean," Sam answered, breathing a bit heavy as he made his way up the stairs. Dean wasn't sure he bought it, but it would do for now.

"Bobby?" Dean continued. They were in the tunnel now and it was illuminated just enough that Dean could see Bobby's face.

"Nothing a bottle of Jack won't fix," Bobby drawled, wiping at the blood on his face with a ratty bandana.

Knowing that they were okay helped to drain some of the tension out of Dean, helped him to relax further into Sam's hold. He was almost warm for the first time since he got this stupid curse, and even though it wasn't over and he had major injuries to tend to, his brother was here. He was safe.

He was on the verge of doing a swan dive into that beckoning darkness, when he remembered that he hadn't really gotten confirmation that they wouldn't go to the hospital. "Sammy, still can't go to the hospital. Still have the death echoes," Dean said slowly, trying to make sure each word was clear.

"Bobby's got a few spells to try, we'll cleanse it," Sam reassured him.

Dean struggled to tilt his head back far enough to see Sam's face, but he couldn't manage the angle. So he looked at Bobby instead. "Won't work," he gasped out. He was starting to run on fumes, that miniscule movement of his head took everything he had left. "They said…." He was cut off as a wave of nauseating dizziness crashed over him and he fought to stay present, to stay above it. "It's not..." he tried and failed again. This time, he didn't try again. He was a goner.

###### 

"What the hell was he saying?" Bobby asked.

Sam looked down at his limp brother in panic, checking to make sure he was still breathing, that his heart was still beating against his chest. Satisfied that those signs of life were present, he answered Bobby. "I guess he thinks your spells won't work, but even if they don't, I don't see how we can skip the hospital this time. I mean, look at him!" Dean looked like hell. The fact that he was letting Sam carry him pretty much said clear as day that he was feeling like it too. Dean was heavy and Sam's arms and shoulders were screaming at the abuse, but Sam easily ignored it in favor of making sure his brother was safe.

"I hear ya, Sam. I don't think we can patch him up on our own, he's lost too much blood and with the stab wound, his body ain't exactly in fighting shape. We'll have to take our chances," Bobby agreed.

Looking down at Dean's colorless face, Sam prayed he was making the right decision. He just got Dean back, he wasn't about to lose him now, not to blood loss and shock or a death echo. He didn't have the full story on why Dean decided to nearly cut through his arm, but knowing his brother, it had made perfect sense at the time. He shouldn't have made the crack about the suicide thing, he had just been so horrified and filled with so much guilt that Dean may have honestly thought he didn't have any other choice. There was clearly a whole lot he and Bobby didn't know about what was happening to Dean and the only one that could fill them in was dying in his arms. There was no other option.

"Yeah, hospital it is. As long as he's drugged up, he should be safe, at least that seems to be how it works," Sam said ruefully. It would be a hell of a time to be wrong.

"Well, they'll definitely have him drugged to the gills…"

A noise sounded in front of them, making Bobby snap his mouth shut instantly. Both men crowded against the darker part of the wall, Sam protectively pulling Dean in closer to him. They weren't far from the trap door and it sounded like it had been dropped back into place. It could only mean one thing.

The big boss was home.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam shouted out in shocked dismay as Dean was jerked abruptly out of his arms, his limp body hanging in the air before disappearing around the bend. Sam didn't waste any time on the how and who, just shot after him immediately, his hands reaching out to grab whatever piece of Dean he could get, eyes focused on his brother's slack and helpless face. Dean stayed just out of reach, almost deliberately and cruelly slightly ahead. Sam wanted to scream in frustration. They didn't have time to do another battle, Dean had already lost so much blood and was still bleeding, the droplets flying off the jacket wrapped around Dean's arm to hit him in the face. If they didn't get him help soon….Sam couldn't even finish that sentence in his own mind, it was too much, almost paralyzing.

Sam's foot fell into a rough spot in the earth, twisting painfully and nearly sending him crashing to the ground, but he pushed the discomfort aside and continued to run after his floating brother. He could hear Bobby just behind him, swearing and panting as he followed. At the head of the tunnel, Sam was finally able to see who had taken Dean away from him and it was indeed the man from the van that had tossed him around from the van. Glancing briefly at the trapdoor outlined with light with a defeated glare, he saw how close they had been to getting out. The witch had a hand out, curled upward, two fingers crooking back like he was beckoning Dean to him. Sam wanted nothing more than to dispatch him in the same fashion as he did the other witches, but the risk of hitting Dean was too great.

Sam was stopped short by what he could only describe as an invisible wall, his nose and forehead taking the brunt of the impact. A spike of agony shot up into his brain as the fragile bones in his nose broke, blood gushing down his lips. He reeled back with a yelp of pain, his hand flying up to cover his nose without him even thinking about the movement. This wasn't the first time he'd broken his nose, but it never ceased to amaze him how bad it hurt. Bobby had seen Sam hit, so was lucky enough to be able to stop in time, his hands coming out to feel over the imperceptible barrier.

Pounding and kicking at the wall impending his way to his brother, Sam could only stare in helpless rage as Dean was stopped right in front of the witch, the man's hands coming out to rest gently on Dean's face. His face was soft with concern as his eyes drifted over his battered brother. It sickened Sam to see it, the perversion of the emotions filling him as he looked at his limp and bleeding brother. Dean had said they couldn't let him die. That's all this was, worry that Dean would die before he could be used to fulfill whatever sick ends they had planned. He didn't care about Dean, he didn't feel anything for him as a person, only as a means to an end.

He was going to rip this one apart. If it was the last thing he did, he would make sure this witch died.

"Get your hands off of him!" Sam shouted, punctuating his words with another forceful and futile strike of his fist on the invisible wall.

The man didn't seem to hear him, continuing his visual inspection, his hands now joining in to check Dean's pulse, to unwrap the bloodied jacket from his arm. The concern on his features turned to panic as he saw the wound it had been covering, again checking Dean's pulse , lifting up an eyelid to peer within. He shook his head, lips pursed in irritation, his eyes flicking up to Dean's white face again. Then he finally looked up at the two men on the other side of the barrier he had erected.

"He is truly a pain in the ass," he said to them calmly. Sam responded with a smug smile because Dean couldn't. His brother prided himself on being a pain in the ass of evil. Well, anything and anyone, really. "Most unsuitable to be a vessel, has no idea the honor we offer him," he continued almost absently, looking back down at Dean.

"What the hell do you mean, vessel?" Sam asked, a cold finger of uncomfortable dread touching his spine. That wasn't the first time they had referenced Dean by that and he had never seen anyone used for a vessel for anything that came away unscathed from it.

"It doesn't matter," the witch replied, his hand stroking gently over Dean's forehead. Sam's teeth clenched with the need to break that hand. "You'll see soon enough. The ritual should be followed, proper sacrifice given to Moros to induct his new vessel, but there is no time. He will not be alive much longer to go through the transformation. It must be done now." With those ominous words, the witch's eyes slid shut, his head falling back slightly. He began to chant, the language none that Sam had ever heard.

Sam knew that had to be the prelude to whatever awful thing he intended to do to his brother, and he renewed his furious assault on the barrier, throwing his shoulder and hip into it with frantic disregard for the pain that was jolting through his bones, joints and muscles as he slammed into it over and over again. It wasn't moving, there was no give, but Sam wasn't going to stop until he broke through or just broke, period. He could see Bobby kneeling beside him out of the corner of his eye, an old and tattered book draped over his knee. He was flipping through the pages quickly, his finger running over the writing before continuing on. Sam prayed that he would find a way to break this down because sheer brute force wasn't having any effect at all.

A light drew Sam's gaze back to his brother. With horrified eyes, Sam saw that it had started. There was a dim glow encompassing Dean's body now, a soft, pale pink. Where Dean's face had been blank and relaxed in unconsciousness, it was now twisted in agony, his teeth bared and clenched, a scream trapped behind them coming out as a tortured groan. His body was no longer limp, but contorting with whatever magic was riding through him, his arms and legs jerking in the air, his torso twisting and contracting as he bucked into the air like he was fighting something holding him down.

Pulling his gun in a desperate attempt, he shot at the wall, not surprised when it seemed to be absorbed into it, hovering high where he had aimed at the witch. He could feel the hot sting of tears welling into his eyes and he fought them, refusing to acknowledge what their presence meant, that some part of him was already starting to admit defeat, to grieve. He had to save Dean, he couldn't let some magic stop him. They had fought wendigos, vampires, werewolves. They had killed a demon. There had to be a way to get out of this. Besides, Dean hated witches. He would be so pissed if he got killed by a witch.

"Bobby!" Sam shouted urgently, looking down at what he felt was his last hope. What he saw firmly pushed those tears away.

Bobby was smiling and it wasn't a pleasant one. He had found something.

"Out of the way, Sam!" Bobby ordered, standing now and stepping up to the wall, the book in one hand, his knife in another.

Sam moved away, eyes locked on the slowing, but still painful looking movements of Dean's body. He could see that his view was now slightly distorted and he understood immediately what it was; the witch was calling in a death echo. Sam knew that was it, that was going to be the last step and he fought the urge to shake Bobby and yell at him to hurry. Bobby was chanting some words. Sam caught a few words and translated them automatically; release, weak, banish, but his mind and gaze was focused on Dean, ready to charge forward the second that wall fell. Bobby sliced a cut into his forearm and shoved the bleeding wound against the barrier, his voice rising as he spoke the final words of the spell. There was a pop , a heave of air filled with a smell like burning wires and then it was gone. The bullet dropped with a dull sound, but Sam didn't hear it. He was already running, his gun out and aimed.

So involved in the spell, the witch had no idea that his barrier had broken. He had no warning that there was a gun aimed at his head, held by the steady hand of a hunter worn down by worry and injury, a brother that was running on wrath and fear. He didn't even get to contemplate that he was about to die, his brains decorating the wall behind him without him even opening his eyes.

Dean fell immediately when the witch died, his body hitting the hard ground before Sam could even make a move to catch him. Sam was on his knees next to him without thought, fingers immediately seeking out a pulse on Dean's throat, the skin cold and slicked with sweat. There was no movement beneath his fingertips. Sam adjusted, pressing deeper, refusing to let the emotions that were starting to fill him erupt into specific feelings, like grief, loss, despair.

"Come on, Dean," he demanded, his voice rough and deep with the tears that were suddenly clogging his throat.

There was no pulse.

For the briefest moment, Sam stared down at his brother's lifeless face objectively, almost clinically, taking in the nearly translucent skin, the dark blotches of his freckles, the fan of his girly lashes resting on his cheekbones. He looked peaceful, at rest, a far cry from the agony that had been contorting his features just minutes ago. There was no breath passing his slightly blue, parted lips, only the smallest hint of heat coming from his body. He was still, all the energy that seemed to emanate from Dean even in his stillest moments gone. Extinguished. Dead.

No.

No. Please.

"No!" Sam released the word in a burst of rage and anguish, his hands closing around Dean's face tightly. "You aren't leaving me, Dean!" he cried out, choking on the grief and misery that were tearing through his guts, his chest, ripping his heart to shreds.

He was only barely aware of Bobby coming up beside him. All he knew was that he had the barest space of time to make an effort to save his brother and he couldn't do that if he couldn't think. It took all he had to push the miasma of debilitating emotion back, to shove the raw, bleeding pieces of his torn heart back together so he could get something in his head besides the tortured mantra repeating through his head –gone, loss, dead, alone. Calling upon the logic and reasoning that ruled so much of him, he fell into the comforting rhythm of trying to save a life. He could let his body take over to perform the practiced motions while he kept his head numb and empty so he could keep functioning, stop himself from falling over Dean's body and weeping like he would never stop. Tilting Dean's head back, Sam opened his brother's slack mouth, sealed his own over it and blew a gusty breath in that raised his brother's chest. Sam immediately shifted to start compressions, grateful to see Bobby take up position beside Dean's head to continue rescue breaths.

Sam had no concept of time. He marked how long he had been trying to get Dean's heart pumping again by the burning and weakening of his arms and shoulders, the sweat dripping down his face. Giving someone chest compressions was a surprisingly physical activity, even for someone as fit as Sam, but his arms would have to fall off before he would stop. He could feel ribs cracking beneath his hands, hear the sharp, sickening noises, and it killed him to cause Dean more pain, but he didn't stop. Every so many compressions, he would pause for Bobby to breathe into Dean's lungs and check his pulse. He tried to ignore the escalating expression of hopelessness on the older man's face, refusing to believe that it was even close to the time to give up on Dean. He knew his brother. It took forever to wake him up from just a sound sleep after a hard night of drinking, of course it would take forever to bring him back from death.

"Sam." Bobby's voice was intrusive in the clean static in his head, especially because Sam knew what he was going to say. His devastated eyes were already saying it. So Sam ignored him.

"Sam!" Bobby called again, a hand coming out to clamp on Sam's bulging forearm.

Pausing just long enough to bat Bobby's arm away from him, Sam kept going, looking away from Dean's face long enough to glare at Bobby. He didn't acknowledge the tears in the man's eyes, the hat crushed in his hands. "Don't give up on him, Bobby. He wouldn't," Sam said harshly, desperate determination hardening his young face.

Bobby shook his head, but bent back down to give Dean a breath.

Sam knew there was a reckoning coming. He knew that there was going to be a point where he would have to stop, a point where he would have to face the fact that Dean was gone and that he wasn't going to just wake up and tell Bobby to quit frenching him. He was going to put it off as long as he could, but he could feel it approaching. He could see it in the persistent stillness of his brother's face, the way he just moved bonelessly to the harsh pushes of Sam's arms on his chest.

He could feel the lock weaken on the space in his head where he had shoved the feelings that would erupt once it was certain. Once he gave up.

"Dean, please. You can't man. You just can't," Sam whispered dejectedly, voice thick with tears, not sure when he had started to cry, but now that he was aware of it, he couldn't contain the tearing, wrenching sobs that were ripping out of his mouth in painful bursts. Dean could never deny him anything. He was praying that it would still work when it really counted.

But it didn't. Dean didn't move. Dean didn't breathe. Dean didn't live.

Sam broke. His arms were seizing, his muscles locked and frozen in overuse, the pain there, but forgotten as he surrendered to the realization that his brother was dead. He had no strength left, it was all swept away by the pervasive anguish flooding every cell of his being, the dam he had hidden it all behind breaking into a million pieces, taking everything that Sam lived for with it. A thousand moments played across his eyes, a million words in his ears, an infinite number of smiles breaking his heart. Memories now. That's all he would ever have. There would never be another anything with Dean.

He collapsed over Dean's still form, his trembling arms wrapping around him and pulling him up so he could hold him close. Maybe if he held him close enough, hard enough, he could stop him from leaving, lock inside whatever might be left. As he cried into Dean's soft hair, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He knew it was Bobby, knew that Bobby would be there to offer him comfort even though he was hurting too, but there was none to be had. There were no words that anyone could offer that could alleviate the deep pit of loss that was now open inside him. He had lost the most important thing in the world to him, there was no solace to be found.

They had faced this so many times, death, and had come out on top. There were close calls, some way too close for any peace of mind, but they pulled through. Sam had nursed Dean through injuries that should have ended his life, but he always managed to stay with him. Neither of them were stupid, they knew the life of a hunter was rarely long, but this was too soon. Any amount of time would be too soon to lose Dean.

So lost in his grief, it took Sam a long time to notice a sensation drifting across his throat, something warm and moist on his skin. It took barely a second for him to realize what it had to be, but he was afraid to look, terrified that he was wrong, that he was imagining that Dean was breathing. He lifted his head away from Dean's slowly, holding his breath so he could hear, holding it because he couldn't breathe anyway from the tension paralyzing him inside.

Dean's face was still pale and motionless, discouraging Sam, but as he lifted two trembling fingers to Dean's lips and felt the shallow exhalations of his brother's breath, he allowed elation to blow through him, his face splitting into a wide, relieved grin. Those same fingers pressed against Dean's throat and he reveled in the faint, but steady pulse he felt there. This time when he wrapped his hand around Dean's head and hugged him close, his tears were born of joy and gratitude.

"Well I'll be damned," Bobby whispered, his arms coming out to encompass the both of them.

Sam could sit there forever, just feeling Dean's chest rise and fall against his own, feel his heart beat in tandem with his, but he knew they still had to get Dean to a hospital. If his brother went under again, Sam was sure he wouldn't be able to get him back this time. He still felt light and giddy after the darkness that had started to consume him, but there was work to be done. He could enjoy the fact that his brother was alive when he was safe.

"Bobby, can you wrap up his arm?" Sam asked, shifting Dean away from him to offer him over to the older man. "I'll make sure there's no one else out there waiting and then bring the truck closer." Sam didn't want to leave Dean, but he was faster than Bobby, he could be at the truck in half the time if he ran. Time was of the essence, it was the most precious commodity right now.

Bobby nodded, gently moving in behind Dean and letting him rest against him. By the time he was reaching into his pack for bandages, Sam was already moving to the ladder. He took one last look at Dean, a small smile gracing his lips, then he was up and out the trap door, leaving it open to provide Bobby with additional light.

The shack and the surrounding area were empty. The black van was outside, empty. So the witch hadn't brought another victim. Maybe the other witches had sent out some sort of distress call and he ran out of time. Right now, it didn't matter. He had no intention of them being here if reinforcements were on the way.

Sam made it to the truck in just a few minutes, swinging inside and starting it up quickly. He was back at the shack in barely any time at all, getting out of the truck and moving around to open the passenger door in preparation. He ran back to the shack and moved quickly down the ladder, seeing that Bobby had already moved Dean closer, a thick bandage now covering the horrific wound on his arm. Sam noted with delight that there was more color in Dean's face now, just a hint to say 'alive'.

"Truck's right outside. I'm going to try to bring Dean up in a fireman's carry, can you reach down from above to help haul him up?" Sam asked, already getting Dean in position.

"You got it," Bobby confirmed, moving up the ladder.

Sam lifted Dean up, his own aches and pains that had been ignored flaring back into screaming life. Sam just kept right on ignoring them. The first few steps up the ladder were tough, his arms felt like overcooked spaghetti noodles, but he forced his muscles to obey him. Once he was halfway up and in Bobby's reach, he pressed Dean back against the ladder, his thighs starting to burn as much as his arms. He pulled back just enough to lever Dean upright so Bobby could get him. He sighed in relief when he felt Dean's weight lift, Bobby reaching down to grip under Dean's arms. With the two of them working together, Sam pushing and lifting, Bobby pulling and dragging, they managed to get Dean out of the cavern.

After that, getting him into the truck was nothing, Sam just put him back over his shoulder and ran to the still running truck. Bobby slid in the driver's side to help guide Dean in, Sam following. Both doors slammed shut and Bobby took off with a cloud of dirt trailing them.

Sam pulled Dean back in to rest against his side, looking down at him with concerned eyes. His brother was still unconscious, his breathing shallow and strained, but he was alive. Right now, it was all he could ask for. It was a drastic improvement over seeing him dead. Sam couldn't help the shudder that worked through his body as he thought again how close he had been to losing his brother.

Bobby was digging around behind the seat with one arm and when he brought it back out again, he had a blanket clutched in his hand. Sam took it with a thankful smile and wrapped it around Dean tightly, tucking it close around him to try and warm him up. He held his brother close, just breathing in that special scent that was Dean; leather, gun oil, cheap cologne. The scent of safety, of home, of love.

###### 

Once they reached the hospital, it only took one deep bellow from Sam to get nurses and orderlies scurrying to get Dean on a gurney and whisked into an operating room. Sam tried to follow, not wanting to let Dean out of his sight. He knew he was going to get stopped at the doors, it happened every single time either he or Dean had trailed the other towards an operating room, but it was almost a ritual at this point. He didn't make it to the doors this time. Not because someone stopped him, but because his own body gave out on him.

All the stress and tension of the last few hours had finally been enough for his already overwrought and injured body. Sam hit the floor like a ton of bricks and earned his own spot on a gurney.

And Bobby was left pacing and muttering about idjit Winchesters under his breath alone.

###### 

When Dean opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was surprise when he identified the stark whiteness of a hospital room. Well, surprise and a small measure of relief. He didn't remember much from when Sam and Bobby came to get him. He remembered passing out in the tunnel with Sam carrying him, the exact method something he would immediately bury far away in his memory, and then he remembered pain; agonizing, endless, shredding through muscle and bone, nerves screaming, brain melting pain.

Then it had just stopped and there was nothing after that. So he was kind of surprised he woke up at all.

The other strange thing was that there was no one in the room with him. He expected to see Sam there, or Bobby, but he was alone. That was enough to spark off panic sharp enough to cut through the dim haze of whatever concoction they had him on. If they weren't there, then something had happened to them.

Dean was immediately sitting up in the bed, grunting as his head spun nauseatingly, a stretching pull in his stomach reminding him of his stab wound. It felt like he had gotten it so long ago. Well, maybe he had, he had no idea how long he'd been lying in this bed. There was an IV stand containing a clear bag and a bag of blood. That right there told him he hadn't been there long. It didn't take a lot of time to replace blood. Maybe he'd been there a few hours at most. Depending on how much he had lost, they would need to replace it slowly. It was sad that he knew that, that it wasn't the first time he'd had to borrow someone else's blood. Ah, the life of a hunter.

His left arm was covered in a bulky bandage, tight enough that Dean could barely move his fingers. As deep as he had ended up cutting the arm, he was lucky he could move them at all. That had really not been one of his smarter moments, but it did the trick in the end.

That thought reminded him of Sam's horror when he told him that he had caused the wound himself.

That reminded him again that Sam wasn't here at his side. His little brother always made a point of being there when Dean woke up in hospitals, it was just what they did for each other. Unless one of them was too injured to get out of their own bed.

Dean didn't waste any more time after that. He knew there wasn't much wrong with him outside of blood loss and since he wasn't feeling too dizzy or nauseous, he figured that had been taken care of sufficiently. He recognized the dull, deep ache of cracked ribs as he shifted and breathed, but couldn't recall how he had gotten those specific injuries. It wasn't enough to keep him down, he'd dealt with injured ribs more often than he'd had perfectly healthy ribs. He pulled the IVs out, wincing a bit as he felt the needles move under his skin. He didn't see his clothes anywhere, and he didn't relish the thought of walking down the halls with his ass hanging out, but it was a small price to pay to find out what the hell happened to his brother and Bobby.

His bare feet hit the cold floor and he pushed off with his good arm, the trembling in his weak legs forcing him to stay still for several frustrating moments. Once he felt steady enough, he started moving, heading into the hall. He saw the typical bustle of a hospital, doctors and nurses moving quickly from one destination to the other. Even better, he saw Bobby heading towards him, the older man's eyes tired, mouth pinched in tension.

When he saw Dean, some of the anxiety dissipated, a crooked smile creasing his face. "You shouldn't be out of bed, Dean. You don't look much better than when we brought you in here," he commented roughly, trying to guide Dean back into the room.

Dean hadn't missed the 'we'. "So Sam is okay?" Dean asked hurriedly, allowing Bobby to maneuver him inside, where he sat heavily on the bed. He kind of needed to, he was more tired than he thought, but it was better to let Bobby think he had done it for him.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. Had a bit of a concussion and some broken ribs, but nothing that won't take care of itself with a little time. He's checking out now, he'll be in here shortly," Bobby explained.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. If everyone was okay, then he was okay. "Is everything taken care of?" Dean asked. He knew that the two witches that had been holding him were dead, but the pain he remembered, he could only guess that it had something to do with the head witch.

"Houses dropped on all of 'em," Bobby promised. Dean smiled wearily. That was good to hear.

"Well good, that means we can concentrate on getting this curse off of me. I have a plan, but you're not going to like it. Sam is really not going to like it, but I can't think of another way," Dean started.

Before he could continue, the door was opening and his brother was stepping inside. There were flakes of dried blood still peppering his face, a splint over his nose, the space under his eyes already turning black, assorted scratches and bruises littering almost every spot of available skin, but he was a sight for sore eyes.

"Hey there, Sammy," Dean said with a bright smile, pleased to see that Sam was alive and well.

Sam didn't say anything, just stared at Dean with an intensity that Dean couldn't understand. It was like he had forgotten Dean's face and was trying to burn it into his memory. It was odd and discomforting and Dean was about to crack some inappropriate joke to lighten up the tension when Sam strode across the room and pulled him into a back cracking hug. Dean winced a bit at the pressure, but didn't try to pull away, just wrapped his arms around Sam to return it.

They stayed that way for the space of a few breaths, Dean slightly confused, but still warmed by the gesture. He guessed that he had really scared Sam at some point.

"So to what do I owe that chick flick moment?" Dean asked when Sam finally pulled away. Sam still looked slightly tragic and unsettled.

"You died, Dean," Sam said bluntly.

"I did? That's fucking awesome!" Dean exclaimed excitedly. When he saw Sam's face fall, his eyes widening with shock and disbelief, he scrambled to explain. "I had to, to get the curse off. They said it was the only way. So since I died, that means I'm echo free, and I don't have to try and talk the two of you into killing me. Win, win!" He had so not been looking forward to that little conversation.

Sam just stared at him with his mouth gaping open, while Bobby tried to clarify. "So the only way to stop the death echoes was to die?"

Dean shrugged. "That's what they said and judging by how freaked out they were when I was bleeding out from the cut on my arm, I believe them. They worked really hard to keep me kicking, despite how pissed off they were at me. I don't think they would have kept me alive if they didn't have to."

"So it's really over?" Sam asked tightly, as if he was afraid to believe it.

"I guess we won't know for sure until I expose myself to a place where someone died, but I think so. A couple of hours in this place should tell me for sure, I'll just wander around the ICU and see if anything triggers." Dean had just gotten patched up, he didn't really want to risk tearing himself up again, but they had to be sure.

"Me and Sam will keep close watch on you while you do that to make sure we pull you back in time in case it isn't over, but right now, I'm getting a nurse in here to hook you back up again to your IV bags. You still look like shit, son," Bobby said firmly.

"Aw Bobby, quit flirting with me," Dean said, smiling. Knowing that he had actually died made him cheerful to still be alive, even if he looked and felt like hell.

Bobby just shook his head and left the room to get the nurse. Dean settled back onto the bed, swinging his legs up. He really was feeling pretty worn out, taking a few minutes to rest wouldn't hurt anything. Sam was beside him immediately, helping to pull the covers over him. Dean almost smacked his hands away, but refrained. Sam had had a rough day, he would allow him to mother hen a bit. A very small bit.

"So what happened after I passed out?" Dean asked. He almost didn't want to make Sam talk about it, his little brother looked so haunted and dismal, his eyes refusing to leave Dean, like he would disappear if he looked away.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, breathing out a sigh. "The witch from the van showed up. Did something to pull you away from me and put up some sort of wall we couldn't get past. He started to do something to you, you were glowing and you looked like you were in so much pain."

Those words brought up an echo of that agony, the memory of it causing a shiver of fear to run along Dean's nerves. He really hoped he never felt anything like that again.

Sam continued. "Bobby did something to get the wall down and I shot the witch. By the time I got to you, you weren't breathing, your heart wasn't beating." Sam's eyes closed then, his mouth tightening. Dean knew that face, he was fighting off tears. "We did CPR and got you back finally, but it was close."

Sam stopped talking then, his head turning and dropping down to hide away from Dean's eyes, but Dean didn't miss the pain the memory caused his brother and it broke his heart because it was his fault he had bled out. He stood by his decision, he knew that without any doubt that if he had not done it that he would be a pink stone right about now, but it didn't lessen the guilt that filled him for what it had done to Sam.

"My hero, Sammy," Dean said sincerely. Sam looked at him then and smiled just a little in response, some of the shadows vanishing from his eyes.

"I just have one question," Dean started gravely. Sam looked at him expectantly. "Who did the mouth to mouth part? I'm going to beat their ass because I could swear I got slipped the tongue."

Sam laughed then, breaking free of the sorrow that had been shrouding him since entering the room. Dean grinned widely, making sure that every bit of the gratitude he was feeling came through in it, in his eyes. Judging by Sam's answering smile and slight nod, it was read loud and clear.

###### 

Dean spent three hours trolling ICU under Sam's and Bobby's watchful gaze. Bobby had explained to the staff that since Dean had apparently tried to off himself in spectacular fashion, he wanted him to see what real pain was like, real suffering. They bought it and Dean was left alone while he wandered room to room.

There were no death echoes. Dean was truly free.

Bobby had been busy during the two days Sam and Dean were recovering in the hospital. The Impala was waiting outside the hospital for them, not fixed completely, but driveable. Dean lamented over the damage, rubbing his hands soothingly over the dented metal like it was in pain, while Sam shook his head and shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably at the spectacle.

"Oh baby, I'm so sorry this happened to you. I'll get you fixed right up at Bobby's," Dean promised.

The boys were going to head to Bobby's to finish their recovery and to allow Dean time to repair the car. Neither of them were up for a hunt quite yet. Once back behind the wheel, Dean finally felt like everything was okay, even if his baby was a little worse for wear. So was he, after all. It was nice not to have to worry about falling into a helpless trance and lining himself up to die. Give him a wendigo any day.

They had been on the road for a few hours, when Sam finally brought up what Dean knew had been spinning in his little brother's mind since the cavern. "Dean, why did you do that to your arm?"

Dean was ready for it this time. "They were going to start the ritual. I knew you wouldn't have been able to get there in time, so I had to stall. I knew they wouldn't let me die, saving me would keep them busy and keep me out of any condition to perform a ritual. I was safe enough," he explained with a shrug.

Dean glanced over at Sam to see how he was taking it, but Sam was looking out the passenger window like his life depended on it. "What if they couldn't have saved you, Dean?" he asked quietly.

"They did," Dean said firmly.

Sam turned and looked at him then and Dean almost wished he hadn't when he saw the fear in his brother's eyes. "Did you even think about what would happen if they didn't? Before you sliced your arm open in a dark cave were you couldn't get any help?"

Damn his brother's inquisitive and perceptive mind. "Yeah, I thought about it, Sam, and at the time I was facing something worse than a death sentence. They were going to make me into a rock. Dude, I can't watch TV for more than an hour without fidgeting, so that was not going to work for me. So I took the chance. It was 80/20 that they would keep me alive. It was better than doing nothing which would only end one way; Dean de Milo. Now I could see someone wanting to immortalize this heavenly package in stone forever, but not actually, you know, me."

He understood where Sam was coming from and he had expected it. Hell, he'd even had the same thoughts. He knew that it might not have worked and he accepted the risk, because the alternative was unthinkable. He knew Sam was going to be upset about it, and rightfully so. If Sam had done that, Dean would have kicked his ass.

Sam sighed, his head rolling back against the seat. "Okay, I get it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I would have probably done the same thing," Sam capitulated. "That was just really close, Dean," he added softly.

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed somberly. He didn't remember dying, would never even have known that he did if Sam didn't tell him, but he knew it was something Sam would never forget. "But hey, those fucking witches killed me and I still managed to beat them by ending their little death echo bullshit, so that makes me feel pretty badass," he stated. He was done with the heart to heart sad stuff. He was alive in his car with his brother, so he had nothing to be sad about. He was just hoping Sam could see it the same way.

"That's some interesting circular logic there, Dean," Sam said with a smirk, eyes still a bit too serious for Dean's taste, but he would take it.

"I don't even know what that means, Sammy. All I know is that they are dead, we are not, case closed. Skeevy ass witches," Dean added with a growl of disgust.

Sam shook his head. "I swear, one witch turns you into a chick for less than a week and you go on a vendetta against all of them," he admonished lightly.

"You're god damn right I have a vendetta. And it was a full week, Sam. A full week of dealing with things no man should ever have to even think about, much less see," Dean spat out with a shudder.

Sam laughed heartily. "Yeah, I think I almost peed my pants when that woman in the store had to explain to you how to use a tampon. Oh man, your face!"

Dean wanted Sam in a better mood, but that was going too far. Some things should never be spoken about again. "Okay, we're done. I'm demolishing memory lane, it's been replaced by a parking lot where that particular incident is buried very far underneath. Got it?" he ordered, one finger held up in warning in front of Sam's face.

Sam just smiled. "Yeah Dean, I got it."

Dean knew it was going to get brought up again. It was too good not to, but that was okay. He had that time when Sam had gotten chicken pox that spread to a very interesting place and had to go to the school nurse to ask her to put calamine lotion on it. The head cheerleader had walked in a just the wrong moment, well wrong for Sam, oh so right for Dean, and proceeded to tell the whole school that Sam had herpes. Oh yeah, that was getting dragged back out into the light when Sam hit on some girl again.

Dean smiled evilly at the thought.

It was good to be alive.

###### 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


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